Wired
by bmax
Summary: Starts immediately after the end of Season 3. Wilson goes to visit House who has just lost his entire team. It all goes downhill from there. H/W friendship. Some language and violence. Hurt!House. Now COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Well, here's a story I've been working on since the middle of last summer. Call me a procrastinator, call me lazy. Actually I'm just scared to death to post these things in public. Hope you enjoy and feel free to leave any comments on where you would like the story to go. I've already gotten the first 4 chapters written but feel free to leave constructive criticism and suggestions. Thanks for reading!

**This takes place immediately following the end of Season 3. **

Wired

Wilson carefully approached House's door, catching the muffled sounds of a complicated Spanish composition coming from a guitar on the other side. He was glad to know House was home and hadn't done anything stupid...yet.

He stood outside the door, listening to the notes resonate through the wood. It always amazed Wilson how House could express himself through music. It almost served as some sort of outlet for his emotions. This seemed to be one of those moments where House was trying to lose himself somewhere other than in the present. If House could put just half the emotional energy he put into his music into the people around him that cared about him, he might manage to have more than just one friend.

House's little breakdown with Foreman just hours earlier told Wilson that House losing his staff was affecting him more than he was willing to let on. Fearing the worst, he drove to House's place, knowing what kind of destructive streak his friend possessed when faced with anything difficult in his life. He stood in the hallway listening for a moment, before knocking firmly on the door.

No answer. The music continued to play. House was ignoring him. How typical.

He knocked again, harder this time, and added, "House, I know you're in there, I can hear you playing!" He respected House's privacy, his manners preventing him from pushing the door open and strutting into the living room. The fact that House had taken his key back during the Tritter fiasco and hadn't yet returned it might've had something to do with it too.

"What took you so long!" came the gruff voice from behind the closed door as the music continued.

He hesitated before turning the knob, wondering if House was going to actually get up and answer the door.

As he heard the music stop, an annoyed voice bellowed, "You plan on holding a conversation through the door all night?"

Maybe it would be smarter to just turn and walk away, letting House play with his guitar, sulk in front of the TV, or partake in some other form of mind numbing entertainment.

Cautiously, he turned the doorknob, afraid of what he might find. Opening the door, he relaxed a bit when he saw his friend still holding the guitar, skilled fingers adjusting each string with precision, head cocked to the side, eyes closed as he concentrated on fine tuning the instrument.

House glanced up, catching Wilson's eye for an instant before trailing down the oncologist's neatly pressed dress shirt and the partially rolled up sleeves to where a six-pack of beer dangled from his fingertips.

"Judging by the overly concerned caring puppy dog eyes, your ridiculously rigid posture and the six pack in your hand, I take it you've heard about my sudden lack of lackeys." House suspected.

"Uh...just thought maybe we could catch the Stanley Cup Playoffs, the Flyers are playing..."

"Oh, please." House interrupted, continuing to pick away at the guitar, "You're here to check up on me. Make sure I don't do something stupid. Did Cuddy send you or is this your own overbearing concern for my well-being?"

Wilson finally succumbed. "I overheard the nurses at the front desk talking about it. You should be proud. They were amazed your team lasted as long as they did."

"New personal record." House paused for a moment. "I'm fine, really. Besides, it's not like I was placed on waivers by the Jets. My job's safe. Pays to be the manager. I get to run the team."

"Which is now nonexistent and may be tossed out of the league for inability to field a team." Wilson retorted.

"Well let's see..." House squeezed his right eye shut, his lip curling up slightly as he glanced up at the ceiling in mock thought, "I've got me, myself and I. That makes three, right?" House replied, looking back at Wilson. "Sounds like a full team to me."

"And who'll be doing all the legwork?" He had a hard time picturing the caustic doctor surviving more than one day actually dealing directly with his patients.

"Me...or maybe I would do it. I'd be keeping Myself busy." House answered, continuing to run with his smartass answer.

"Yeah, and I can just picture you actually visiting your patients. They'd all be running for the exits." Wilson strolled across the room then casually leaned his right hand gently on the edge of the piano, watching House tinker with his guitar.

"As long as they run out the front door and not the back." House replied. "Don't wanna mess with my stats." Glancing up, he spotted Wilson's hand resting on the immaculate surface of the baby grand. "Hey, watch the fingerprints."

"Sorry," he replied, using the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the greasy smear left by his palm. It always amazed him how the man who could care less about appearance and neatness always kept his instruments spotless and perfectly in tune.

"So, what are…" Wilson started as House's hands came into view, Wilson noticed the new guitar being cradled in his lap. A slight smirk crossed his features as he realized maybe House did actually listen to him once in a while.

"New guitar?" Wilson asked, unable to hide the patronizing tone in his voice.

Looking down at the smooth wood finish, House answered, "No, I jumped the guy on the corner and stole it from him. Took the case too. Figured I could use the loose change. I'm set with the vending machines at work for at least a year."

"Should last forever." Wilson quipped, "especially since you never actually put your own money in those machines."

House stopped playing, pushed himself up and leaned over the top of the piano to place the new instrument back in its case. Immediately his right hand shot to his thigh as he started massaging the damaged muscle, lowering himself gently back on the piano bench. Wilson wondered how long House had been sitting there, knowing it had probably been quite a while to allow his leg to stiffen up that much.

Wilson looked away, trying to ebb his concern as he watched his friend squeeze his eyes shut for a split second as he tried to hide the discomfort pushing its way to the surface. Reaching into his jeans pocket, he pulled out his trusty amber vial, popped the lid and threw his head back as he flung the oblong white pill into his mouth and swallowed.

House's blue eyes opened once again, focusing back on the aluminum cans still hanging from Wilson's left hand.

"Want one?" he asked, pulling a can off the plastic ring, handing it to House across the piano, using his sleeve once again to wipe up a drop of condensation that had fallen on the shining black surface. "They're still cold." He wiped his hand on his pants, removing additional moisture from his fingers.

"Old Style?" House asked, scrutinizing the blue and white can. "My dad drank Old Style."

"Then send it to your dad." Wilson replied as he made his way around the piano and collapsed onto his designated left side of the couch. "He might actually appreciate my common courtesy instead of bitching about what brand I bought."

"You sure you're not from Wisconsin or Illinois?" House asked, holding the can in his left hand as he continued working on his thigh. "Because I think they're the only people who actually drink that stuff without puking."

House pushed himself back to his feet, gingerly testing his right leg. His cane nowhere in sight, he placed his left hand on the piano and took a faltering step forward. A grimace crossed his features as he slowly made his way toward the couch.

"Where's your cane?" Wilson asked nonchalantly, trying to hide any sign of concern in his voice as he searched for the remote.

"Left it..." House gave a halfhearted look around the room, "somewhere around here." He continued his slow journey across the ten feet or so towards Wilson who was doing his best to focus on anything but watching his friend struggle towards him. Finding the remote wedged between the cushion and the armrest, he flipped on the TV and placed his feet on the coffee table House was currently working his way around.

Returning back to the original subject, Wilson asked, "So, Cameron too, huh?

"Yep," House replied as he set his beer down on the coffee table and unceremoniously collapsed backward onto the couch. "Maybe she felt the need to sacrifice herself in the name of Chase. Makes her feel noble."

House took a drink, scrunching his face like a three year old eating asparagus. "How do they get away with calling this beer?" He added then changed the subject, "Can we talk about something else? I thought you came over here to make me forget about work."

"That's what the beer's for." Wilson answered. "This is a dumb question but do you have anything edible around here?"

"No, but I have about three bucks in loose change. Could get you a candy bar and a Dr. Pepper out of the machine at the hospital." House took a swig and almost choked. "God. You couldn't pick any other brand? I think I may just send this to my dad, let him suffer a bit. How much do you think it would cost to Fed Ex it?"

Wilson was ignoring him as he got up to look in House's fridge. Some grape jelly, a few slices of dried out American cheese and something in the drawer that must've once been in the meat group.

"You have no food here, you never buy your own lunch, your car is a piece of crap and you never go on vacation. So how is it you never have any money?"

"Saving for a rainy day," House answered, reaching down and lifting his right leg onto the coffee table, followed closely by his left.

"We could have a flood of biblical proportions and you still wouldn't part with your money." Giving up on his search for food, he plunked back down next to House, the hiss of air escaping from the leather cushions.

"That hurts, you know. I distinctly remember paying for dinner right before my parents came to town." Pointing his finger at Wilson's chest.

"That was like a year and a half ago!" Wilson replied, "And you only paid because I loaned you five thousand dollars!"

"I paid you back."

Wilson just shook his head, returning his attention back to the two players beating the crap out of each other on the ice.

They sat quietly for a few moments, each man staring intently at the television, waiting for the other to break the uncomfortable silence.

House made the first move, pushing himself off the couch, looking around confusedly, eyebrows furrowed. "Where the hell's my damn cane?" He grumbled, glancing around the room.

Wilson took this as a subtle hint meaning House wasn't in the mood for a jaunt around the apartment so he joined in the search and quickly spotted it against the wall by the front door.

"Got it." He quickly stood up and jogged the few steps to the entryway and snagged the piece of black painted wood with the orange flames, handing it to House.

Wrapping his right hand around the handle, House pushed himself off the couch, placed the cane by his right foot and headed towards the front door, brushing past Wilson who was still standing at the end of the couch with eyebrows furrowed, trying to figure out what the hell is friend was doing. He reached down to pick up his jacket from the closet doorknob.

"Let's go." he demanded, shrugging on his leather jacket.

"Where?" Wilson was slightly confused by House's sudden interest in venturing out somewhere.

"Out." House grabbed his helmet off the computer desk and tossed it Wilson's direction. "I'm buying."

"Wait. Did I just hear you... mmph!" More out of self-preservation, Wilson's hands immediately shot up, catching the helmet against his chest.

"No. No way." Wilson answered abruptly with a hint of worry in his voice. "I am NOT riding on the back of that thing." He had seen the way House drove that death machine. There was no way he was getting on the back with a cripple who had a drug problem even if said cripple was his best friend. "Come on, I'll drive."

"Wuss." House continued out the door without hesitation. Wilson followed quickly, trying to dissuade his friend from doing something stupid with a ridiculously fast two-wheeled vehicle.

"Well, I'm not riding in that," House stated bluntly, pointing towards the conservative sedan parked across the street. "Ruins my rep."

"Yeah, because I know how important that is to you," Wilson deadpanned.

They were at a standoff, neither man relenting.

Wilson waved the white flag, or in this case, his keys. "Fine. I'll follow you." At least maybe he could keep an eye on him on the way to wherever the hell they were going.

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A/N: I started this story about eight months ago, worked on it throughout the summer then stopped for some reason. Maybe because life got a little hectic. I finally decided to just post it, that way I'll actually get back to work on finishing it. I'm also still working on Monster Truck Mayhem. Chapter 4 to be coming soon...


	2. Chapter 2

Wired Chapter 2:

After breaking every speed limit known to man trying to keep up with the maniac on the motorcycle, Wilson was thankful for the lack of law enforcement on their route. He found himself pulling into a small, poorly lit parking lot, spotting the obnoxiously bright orange motorcycle parked in the handicapped parking spot near the dull grey building.

House had already removed his helmet and unclipped his cane when Wilson approached him. Looking at the small establishment suspiciously, he expressed his concern. "You couldn't pick a TGI Fridays or a Chili's?"

"No pool tables," House stated. "besides, those places are boring."

"Yeah, who wants a nice quiet night out?" Wilson added sarcastically, discreetly holding the door open for House as they entered the bar.

House had led him to a classic shady hole-in-the-wall. Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling over the two pool tables nestled in the corner. Small tables were scattered throughout the dingy room, bar stools and chairs accompanying them on the grey tile floor which may have been white at one time. Flickering neon signs hung on all four walls, casting a rainbow of colors over the smooth surfaces of the tables and reflecting off the mirrors lining the back of the bar.

There were only a handful of people inside, scattered throughout the establishment. Some were sitting on tall barstools at the bar, nursing their watered down mixed drinks that had once contained ice cubes, others were over by the pool tables, dressed mostly in black and looking very menacing. Wilson assumed they must've ridden in on the two Harleys they spotted out front; the bikes House made sure to sneer at as they entered the bar.

Making their way across the room, Wilson felt as if they were interrupting something and every eye seemed to be scanning his neatly pressed button-down shirt and professional looking tie. Shit. A little warning from House about his attire would have been helpful. House always seemed to make himself fit in, no matter what he was wearing, the leather jacket aiding his overall look. After an uncomfortable pause in the action, the regulars returned to their conversations. Luckily the menacing looking group didn't even acknowledge the newcomers, keeping to themselves in the far corner of the bar.

House limped toward one of the pool tables, claiming it for himself as he told Wilson to get him a real beer; anything but Old Style.

"Wait, you said you were buying," Wilson protested as he followed House to the rack containing the pool cues.

"The games of pool," House answered as he put fifty cents into the slot with an exaggerated motion. "See?"

Wilson sighed as he leaned his chosen weapon against the edge of the pool table and rubbed his forehead. Funny how his friend had a way of bringing on the worst headaches.

"Hurry up so I can thoroughly kick your ass in a game of eight ball." House made sure to say it loud enough for the entire room to hear.

"Yes, the highlight of my night." Wilson mumbled.

Deep down, Wilson knew how much House needed this right now. He needed the distraction from all of the other crap going on in his life. Nothing like humiliating a friend in a few games of pool to help relieve the stress from work and life in general. He really didn't mind House taking out his frustrations on him now and then, no matter what House's choice of weapon seemed to be for that day. House's competitiveness had never left him after the infarction; in fact, he seemed even more stubborn and determined to take on any challenge or dare.

Tennis was the sport Wilson missed most. He had only picked up a racquet a few times since House lost the use of his leg. It just wasn't the same playing without his best friend on the court. He recalled how the two of them would battle each other for hours, until both men were drenched with sweat, faces bright red from the exertion. They were evenly matched: Wilson was consistent and could place the ball well, whereas House had an incredible serve and could chase down almost anything with those long legs of his.

God, he missed those days. They still competed against each other, but now the games consisted of poker, darts, foosball, video games and pool. An occasional game of ping-pong would be played when House was having a good day physically.

Wilson returned to his impatient friend who was leaning on a pool cue, currently chalking up the end of his stick, blue dust fluttering down, covering everything within a three-foot radius around him. Oh yeah, I can totally see him do that.

"You break." House smirked as he set the little blue cube down on the table's edge with a clack.

"Gee, thanks."

House was gonna enjoy this, Wilson thought as he leaned over the table, silently praying he wouldn't scratch on his first shot. God, he hated pool. But it was better than leaving House alone to wallow in his sorrows and down a half a bottle of Vicodin and who knew how much booze. He'd rather deal with the few hours of embarrassment if it kept House from sulking in some dark room alone.

---------------------------------------------

Four beers and who knew how much time later, House was once again cleaning up the table with Wilson.

"Eight ball, corner pocket." House said, pointing with his stick to the designated target.

Leaning on his left leg, he placed his long fingers on the table and lined up the shot. Placing the stick between his thumb and pointer finger, he peered down the cue stick and shot it forward with a quick snap of his wrist. The ball rolled, bounced off the far side of the pocket and dropped into the hole. He stood back upright and leaned on the table and his stick, his tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek as he stared back at Wilson suspiciously.

Scanning the number of striped balls still remaining (which seemed to be about all of them), House quipped, "Are you even trying or are you really that pathetic?"

"Sorry, I'm not Fats Domino," Wilson mocked in apology as he leaned on his stick, his cheek resting against the hand clenching the pool cue.

"You mean Minnesota Fats," House corrected as he started racking the balls again. "But I think Fats Domino could beat your ass too."

"Thanks for the encouraging words." Wilson said with a bit of hostility in his voice as he wandered back to the table where his beer sat. He let out a heavy sigh as he downed the rest of his Guinness. God, he really hated pool. Why couldn't they just have stayed at House's place and watched the hockey game? There was a TV hanging in the corner behind them, but they were showing a Phillies game. It was too early in the season to get excited about baseball yet. Finally, he gave up. "I need a break... and a refill," he announced, holding up his empty glass, "want anything while I'm up?"

"Yeah, pool will really wear out a guy," House retorted, spinning the pool cue between his fingers and thumb. "Maybe you could find someone who actually knows how to play pool," he continued," oh, and a Heineken. Bottle. None of that on tap crap." House looked up and smirked. "Hey, that rhymed."

Rolling his eyes at his friend's juvenile antics, Wilson headed back to the bar to get a refill. As he was waiting for his glass, he overheard a familiar voice booming off the walls of the small room. He inwardly cringed as he purposely kept his eyes on the line of bottles against the back of the bar, trying to avoid any connection with the loudmouth attracting all the attention.

"Anyone here think they know how to play pool? " House bellowed, leaning on his pool cue like a conqueror staking his claim. "Better yet, anyone wanna _bet_ they know how to play pool?"

He saw House take a twenty out of his wallet and wave it in the air like a piece of meat in front of a bunch of hungry crocodiles. Wilson waited for one to leap out of the water and try to bite his hand off. Wilson didn't want the extra attention tonight, but if House wanted better competition it was fine with him. He'd just sit back on one of the wobbly bar stools and watch House wipe the table with some other poor soul.

Wilson's good mood wavered as he saw one of the bikers from the corner table turn around and rise from his chair, approaching House and the bait confidently. The guy looked about House's height but had a good fifty pounds on him. He had long, dark, greasy hair pulled back in a ponytail, giving Wilson a clear view of the guy's round face and deep-set eyes that seemed to be glaring no matter what the guy's mood. Full beard and mustache making him look like something right out of Hell's Angels. "How cliché", Wilson thought. The typecast was complete as Wilson saw the giant Harley Davidson logo emblazoned on the back of the guy's black leather jacket.

House and the biker faced off, both clad in their leather jackets, standing toe to toe as if they were about to go ten rounds in a boxing match.

From the mere fifteen feet away, Wilson could see House's smirk grow wider as he prepared himself to take on his latest victim. Wilson watched as the balls were racked and House prepared his cue stick with another ton of chalk, discreetly blowing the blue residue in the biker's direction who scowled at him in return.

"Ladies first." House announced as he waved a hand toward the white cue ball positioned at the end of the table, earning another deadly glare from his competitor.

"What are you waiting for then?" replied the biker gruffly as the corner of his lip turned up slightly.

"Ha! Oh, that was a good one." House grabbed his stick and lined up the shot for the break. The balls separated with a 'crack' as they scattered across the table, one finding the side pocket and landing with a 'thunk'.

Wilson sat back in the bar stool with a sigh of relief as both men settled into what Wilson hoped to be a friendly game of pool.


	3. Chapter 3

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A/N: For some reason, this chapter turned into more trouble than I thought it would be. I think I've read it waaaay too many times and it just starts sounding too repetitive to me. Anyway...

Thanks for all of the kind reviews and story alerts. Sorry it takes me so darn long to post a chapter. Real life tends to get in the way and the fact that I'm not a writer might have something to do with it too.

Any and all mistakes are mine. I changed a bunch of stuff after my beta looked at it, so blame me for any major screw ups. Thanks Magie 05!

Monster Truck Mayhem should be up in a few days for any of you that are interested. Thanks again for your kind comments!

Chapter 3

Wilson found himself parked on a bar stool, idly watching the Flyers game while occasionally throwing a wary glance towards the pool table. He shifted his weight, allowing blood flow back into the nether lands while his eyes returned to the two men battling for supremacy on the green felt. To his surprise, the game had not erupted into World War III...yet. 

During the couple of games that had taken place, he noticed how House had been discreetly hiding his disability from his opponent and any casual onlookers. Most people, especially those who might've had a few too many beers, wouldn't have even noticed the limp or the occasional grimace crossing the older doctor's features. His legs were mostly obscured by the pool table and the measly fluorescent lights above did little to brighten anything more than the dull green surface where most of the attention was focused, thus adding to the illusion.

House casually strode around the green playing surface, placing one hand on the edge of the pool table for support while using his cue stick as a makeshift cane. He held it high on the shaft, casually placing it next to his foot as he stepped. He did a convincing job of making it look more like he may have had a few too many beers instead of having an actual physical disability. Wilson thought it could be a little of both since he had lost count of not only House's drug intake this evening but also the amount of alcohol that had been consumed by both of them. He sank back and continued to watch House take the second game from Burly Biker Dude, as Wilson had subconsciously nicknamed him. 

"Double or nothing," the man grumbled. 

"So, forty bucks, huh?" House smiled slyly. "Are you good for it or will I have to get my bodyguard, Vinny the Vice, over there to squeeze it out of you?" He said as he motioned with his head toward Wilson who suddenly felt a shudder run up his spine when several sets of eyes turned to stare directly at him. 

"What's he gonna hit me with, his pocket protector?" the biker scoffed as he eyed Wilson's white dress shirt and tie. 

"Hey, those things can be deadly. They're like those ninja stars." House answered with a mock seriousness in his voice, "Let one go and...Wham!...lodged in your neck, your jugular sliced in half." He made a chopping motion with his hand to the side of his neck. "Lucky for you, they don't allow weapons in here." House continued as Wilson glanced down at his empty chest pocket, letting out a sigh of relief before sending a glare House's direction. 

"Oh, and his eyes can shoot out death rays." House made a gesture as if he'd been shot in the chest, "see?" He sent a somewhat drunken smile Wilson's direction. All he wanted to do was blend in with the bad 70's style paneling lining the wall behind him and wait for his friend to finish the game and get out of there. House's lumpy couch and tiny TV were sounding more inviting by the minute. 

"Come on. One more game, or are you too much of a pussy?" The man dared House. 

The corner of House's mouth rose into a cocky, lopsided smirk that seemed to get him into so much trouble. "I'm waiting for the double dog dare." he paused, "fine, I've got nothing better to do." 

Crap. So much for the clean getaway. Wilson leaned back again, fear once again starting to rear its ugly head in his own psyche as he watched House rack up the balls once again. 

Another half hour passed and Wilson was feeling pretty relaxed. Slouching down in the stool, he blearily tried to keep his focus on the game at hand but the weight of his eyelids kept overpowering his own instinct for self preservation. His back was getting stiff from being wedged against the wall so he fought through the alcohol haze and found the effort to sit back up. He yawned loudly as he raised his arms over his head, feeling the snaps and pops in his spine. 

He was impressed to see House still on his feet, seeming none the worse for wear, his face relaxed and showing no signs of pain. Maybe the combination of opiates and alcohol flowing through his system at the moment might have had something to do with it. 

As he tuned back in to the conversation, he noticed the volume seemed to have increased, especially from the larger, hairier one, whatever his name was. His voice seemed to resonate throughout the establishment. No doubt House was probably saying or doing something to piss the guy off. 

"Looks like you're left holding your balls...again." House declared. He was enjoying this. "Let's see..." House looked up at the ceiling, squeezing his right eye shut as he began processing numbers in his brain. 

"That's three games, twenty bucks each." He lowered his head again and stared back at his competitor, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. "For those of you riding the short bus, that comes to sixty bucks." 

House set his stick down and leaned on the table, his right palm flat against the fuzzy green surface. Holding his left hand out across the table and over the remaining striped balls, he started waggling his fingers at the biker's chest, "Gimme." 

The biker scowled, placing both hands on the ledge, his dark eyes meeting House's vibrant blue ones, the pupils reflecting the vibrant oranges and pinks of the neon signs surrounding them. "I don't owe you shit." he answered in a deep, angry tone.

"Well now, if I knew you were gonna be that way, I'd have never let you play with me." He eyed the biker up and down, his smirk still firmly in place.

House raised his head and smacked his own forehead with his open palm, "Oh, wait! I get it. You need the money to keep paying for the maintenance on that piece of shit parked outside." House taunted, motioning with his thumb toward the front door, "Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Well, guess what, I don't. Your own damn fault for buying that piece of crap to begin with. And you know what else?" he stated as he picked up his pool cue again, rolling it between his fingers, eyeing the polished wood and chalked tip, "I've come to realize that there are only two kinds of people who buy Harleys; posers and assholes. Guess which category you fall into."

House's last comment gained a few more glares from the three other Harley riders sitting in the corner. Luckily, they turned back away and minded their own business. Wilson could do nothing more than cover his eyes with a slightly shaking hand. The alcohol he'd consumed seemed to have been neutralized by the sudden rush of adrenaline coursing through his body.

As he continued to cautiously watch from a few feet away, Wilson's mind was running through possible scenarios to escape a possible pummeling. He was the negotiator, not a fighter, that was House's job. But now Wilson could only depend on his own skills since House had lost his mobility and was not nearly as agile in a fight as he had once been. 

Fearing not only for House's safety but his own, he started inching off his seat in anticipation of a possible rapid escape. He pictured himself tossing House over his shoulder like a kicking and screaming toddler and making a made dash for the exit. No, he couldn't do that. He'd probably throw his back out or drop House on his head... which might not be such a bad thing. 

He decided that maybe the best course of action was to be prepared. The Boy Scouts had taught him something, even if it wasn't how to choose friends wisely. Cautiously, he kept his distance from the two bickering adolescents who he silently hoped would suddenly grow up and act like the adults they were. Ha, who was he kidding?

House was unrelenting. He seemed to be surveying the burly man with a critical eye as he continued to jab the other man with insults. "Hmmmm, or maybe you're compensating for your..." House looked down at the man's crotch, "shortcomings." House turned toward the girlfriend who had been sitting in one of the taller stools next to the far wall, watching quietly. "I'm assuming it's the latter, especially with the pent up hostility. Am I right?" 

The girlfriend, who reminded Wilson of Joan Jett, stared back at House with a look that said 'don't go there'. 

Ignoring the woman's postural warning, House continued to push. He leaned on the pool cue, holding his hand up high on the stick as the butt end rested on the floor. That ridiculous smirk was still pasted on his face, causing more trouble for the two of them than Wilson could remember. Looking back at the biker, he swore he could see steam coming out of the guy's ears, the man's pock marked face getting redder by the minute. 

"C'mon, we're leaving." The biker grabbed his girlfriend by the arm and started to usher her from the bar stool at the corner table. 

House took a step out from behind the pool table, effectively blocking their paths, causing the two of them to slightly stumble into a nearby chair. The couple stepped back to their left as House counteracted the move, making himself a formidable roadblock.

"You got a problem?" asked the pissed off biker. 

"Nope, not at all." House answered, continuing to lean on the billiard stick, "matter of fact, I've had a wonderful time humiliating you and having you pay for my entertainment this evening." House waved his fingers at the guy again. "C'mon, time to pay up."

The other man made no motion for his wallet. 

House looked over at the girlfriend, "Is he always this cheap? Make you pay when you go out on a date?" 

House eyed the couple suspiciously, "But then again I could be wrong about you two," he added, looking at the girlfriend who rivaled both men in height and had short spiked black hair. "Maybe he's the bitch in the relationship."

The last comment pushed the biker over the edge. He clenched his fist and pulled his arm back, ready to strike. His girlfriend grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, telling him House wasn't worth it.

Maybe it was the sudden burst of adrenaline or his sudden urge to save his friend's ass, but Wilson sobered up quickly as he rose from his seat and casually strolled up to the three people currently trying to burn holes through each other with their stares. Inside he was thanking the remaining alcohol in his bloodstream for giving him the courage to approach his own possible annihilation.

"Uh... excuse my friend. He doesn't know when to shut his mouth." Wilson apologized with his professional voice, hoping it would help cool down some extremely hot tempers.

"He better learn when to shut it or I'll do it for him," the man growled. 

"Ooooh, how original!" House mocked. "Did you come up with that one all by yourself?" 

"House." Wilson warned. 

The biker started to bring his fist back again, his muscles clenching with tension like a snake coiled, ready to strike. 

Fearing for their lives, Wilson felt it was time to play the cripple card whether House liked it or not.

Grabbing House's cane from the pool cue rack where it had been stowed, Wilson quickly grabbed the stick from House's hand and replaced it with the cane in one swift motion. He grabbed House's hand and wrapped the long fingers around the handle as the tip came to rest next to the other doctor's right foot. House didn't seem to even notice. His piercing gaze was transfixed on the eyes in front of him as they stared each other down, waiting for the other to make the first move.

"Let it go, House." Wilson had taken a hold of House's left arm, grabbing a fistful of leather sleeve but House refused to budge. "I'm not letting it go. The guy made a bet, he should keep his end of the deal." Looking directly at the biker. "Right?" 

The biker's lip curled up into a slight grin, looking down at the cane that was now supporting House's right leg. "What're you gonna do, chase me down?" The biker slightly snickered at the thought as he went to step confidently around House.

House quickly side stepped in front of him, Wilson in tow, still hanging from his sleeve. "I'm faster than you think." House challenged, his mood becoming more serious. "You know it's not nice to lie. Hasn't your mother taught you any manners?" He paused, "Or maybe your mom is just like you. A big fat liar." 

Wilson cringed when House decided to involve the other man's mother. It was one of those unwritten laws that should never be broken, like making fun of the handicapped... unless the particular handicapped person had a big mouth and happened to be your best friend.

As if on cue, Wilson heard the loud, booming voice echo off the walls. "Don't play with this guy, he's a cheapskate and a liar! And his breath stinks too! Oh, and if you are stupid enough to bet with him, don't mention the size of his penis. Seems to make him a bit SHORT tempered."

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose with the hand not currently in a tug of war with House's left sleeve. All he hoped for at this point was to be able to walk out the front door without a busted nose or a concussion.

He tugged a bit harder, throwing House slightly off balance, causing him to stumble to his left, hopping slightly on his good leg. House was able to catch himself with his left hand on a nearby table before they both would've ended up on the floor. Wilson pushed against the same arm to try and give him extra support, but it just seemed to make matters worse as House was pushed back to the right with a little more force than intended. This earned a glare from the stubborn doctor who glanced over his shoulder at Wilson in frustration as he caught himself with his cane. 

"You mind? Not really the time to dance. Can't you see I'm trying to negotiate here?" he mumbled out of the corner of his mouth as he yanked his arm out of Wilson's grasp.

"Oh, is that what you call that?" Wilson questioned "I thought you were trying to get your ass kicked... and possibly mine."

"Trust me." House said in a reassuring voice before turning back to his conversation. Warning bells went off in Wilson's head whenever those words escaped from House's mouth.

Wilson remained clinging to the back of House's jacket like a lifeline, figuring as long as he was in contact with the other man, he'd somehow protect him. House kept his feet and cane firmly planted on the floor while he continued to play Alpha dog, his upper body swaying slightly with each tug of Wilson's hand 

The biker pivoted on his foot and turned away from House, brushing him off with a wave of his hand and a "pffft" through pursed lips. He started to walk back toward the pool table, picking up his pool cue on the way. 

"Hey, I'm talking to you!" House took a half step forward, "don't turn your back on... " and made the mistake of flipping his cane around, hooking the handle on the guy's upper arm. He gave it a yank, causing the other man's body to spin to the left. 

Before Wilson could even comprehend what was happening, he saw a glimpse of brown and tan streak past his peripheral vision as the cue stick swung through the air like a baseball bat. The thicker handle connected with the left side of House's face, causing his head to snap to the right, the rest of his body twisting with the blow. The loud crack of wood striking bone echoed throughout the small room as the stick snapped in half and sailed like a boomerang towards the far wall before clattering harmlessly to the floor in front of an empty table. 

It was like slow motion as he watched House's arms fall slackly to his sides and his legs buckled under him. A table and a few chairs were sent scattering as almost two hundred pounds of dead weight knocked them over with a loud crash. Wilson watched in horror as House's head bounced off the hard floor.

A hush fell over the small crowd as they all remained glued to their chairs, mouths hanging open in shock. The attacker paused for a moment as if posing for a baseball card photo before dropping the broken cue stick and heading quickly for the door, grabbing his girlfriend on the way.

"Jesus, babe." She muttered as she shuffled her high heeled shoes to keep up with her boyfriend, looking over her shoulder at the crumpled form lying in a heap.

"He hit me first. You saw it." The biker replied defensively to no one in particular as they slinked their way out of the bar, "It was self defense." The other patrons gave the couple plenty of room, not wanting to get involved with the hostile stranger.

As the biker made his escape, Wilson could do nothing more but stare at his unmoving friend, his own muscles keeping him frozen to his spot just a few feet away. He snapped out of his momentary shock when he caught site of the biker making his getaway. 

"Shit..." he muttered under his breath as his brain finally comprehended what happened. 

He quickly hopped over a fallen chair and knelt down in front of House, The first thing he noticed were the thin lines of crimson flowing from the other man's mouth and nose. The two trails of blood seemed to merge in the stubble on House's upper lip and made its way to the floor, pooling on the dingy tile under his right cheek. 

Wilson turned and faced the bartender. "Call 911." he ordered, trying to keep his voice calm while his insides were in turmoil. Who knew what kind of damage was done? He didn't want to take any chances.

The bartender looked at Wilson suspiciously, "You sure he needs an amb..." 

"Just make the damn call." Wilson tried to restrain himself from losing his patience with the uninterested bartender. He looked around and noticed the other patrons standing around, gawking at the scene as if they had just come across a car accident. "And someone get me a towel with some ice!" He yelled with a little more anger than he intended.

The adrenaline rushed through him as he tried to kick himself into doctor mode. He needed to evaluate his friend's condition as soon as possible but couldn't seem to get his mind working properly. _This is why doctors aren't supposed to treat family members or loved ones_, he thought, trying to untie the knots that had formed in his stomach. His concern for his friend overtook his ability to be objective and clinical. He took a deep breath through his nose to calm his own tightly bound nerves and started his assessment. 

Careful not to move his friend too much, he gently shook his shoulder, calling House's name. No response. Crap. _Let's see..A, B, C's . A, B, C's... Airway, breathing, circulation. _When in doubt, go back to the basics.

He took House's wrist and made a mental note of pulse rate and respirations as he watched his friend's chest expand and contract. Wilson stayed by the fallen doctor, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly, the black leather squeaking softly in his grip.

"It's gonna be okay..." he muttered under his breath more for his own reassurance. He knew House would probably laugh at him if he saw how damn flustered he'd gotten. Dammit, he knew he should've jumped in sooner, grabbed his stubborn friend and forced him out of there. He would've rather dealt with the whining and bitching in the comfort of House's apartment instead of having to sit in an ER in the middle of the night, worried sick about his friend's condition...again.

Another yell and a shake. House was still very much out of it. With each passing second, Wilson's concern level seemed to increase ten fold as he waited for a response from his injured friend. 

A grungy bar towel and a cup of ice cubes appeared in front of his face. He quickly poured the ice in the towel, wrapped it tightly and pressed it gently against House's left cheek and jaw. He swore he could see the tissue swelling right before his eyes. A soft groan emanated from beneath the beer-stained bar towel as a limp hand tried to swat at the offending intrusion. Wilson perked up as he tried to gain House's attention.

"House, can you hear me?" He shook his shoulder gently again. Nothing.

"House, c'mon!" he yelled a bit louder right next to his ear. This gained a slight groan from the older doctor who tried turning his head away from the concerned voice as his hand clumsily tried to cover his ear. Wilson sighed in relief at the response.

"Try to stay with me. Ambulance is on the way." Wilson reassured him. 

Suddenly, he felt tension pull against his hand as House tried to roll onto his back. 

"Hold still." He ordered as he wrapped his right arm around House's back, keeping him on his right side. The last thing Wilson wanted right now was for House to aspirate blood or anything else into his lungs.

Quickly, Wilson hopped over House's prone body while still keeping the ice against House's swelling face. Kneeling behind him, he pushed his own thighs up against House's back to keep him on his side. He could hear the comments now if House knew what he was doing. 

Another slight groan emanated from House's partially open mouth. Blood and saliva had mixed to create a sticky, stringy goo that oozed its way down to the floor. It found its way under House's right cheek, looking like some strange red glue adhering House's face to the floor. 

"You just can't keep your mouth shut, can you?" Wilson chuckled nervously as he continued to monitor the man who always seemed to have a knack for always pissing off the wrong people. 

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A/N: As usual, I'd love feedback and concrit. Also would love to learn to write without it sounding like instructions in a cookbook. "first this, then this." Just my own self deprecation. 

\/p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

**A/N: Once again, I apologize for the long breaks between updates**. **Life has kept me busy and it's so difficult to devote much time to writing. Thanks to all who've been following my stories and leaving such nice comments. I appreciate each and every one of you.**

Just a slight warning: If you haven't figured it out yet, I tend to get a bit detailed in my stories, thus dragging it on for numerous chapters. I hope none of the imagery in the beginning of this chapter confuses you. If so, let me know. Also, if this story starts to bore you, I'll pick it up and try to focus more on the action to speed things up.

I keep forgetting to thank my betas: Magie05 and 2tailswaggin, who are both wonderful writers. I've made a few changes after the beta, so if there are any mistakes they're all mine!

Chapter 4

Something was buzzing in his ear. Mosquito. Fly. Something. Why wouldn't the damn thing leave him alone? Maybe if he just ignored it... he faded back into his dreamless slumber.

A sudden sharp sting to his jaw awakened his senses as he clumsily swatted at the bothersome pest, his hand blindly flopping around in front of his own nose in an attempt to shoo the annoying insect away.

He was drifting off again when the bug started calling his name. _What? How did it know his name?_ He blearily thought. _Come to think of it, since when did insects talk?_

"House!" There it was again.

House realized the bug sounded an awful lot like Wilson. _So, it was true_, he thought hazily, _Wilson really was Jiminy Cricket._ This explained a lot.

He wanted to tell Wilson to shut the hell up and let him sleep, but couldn't seem to issue anything more than a guttural moan. His mouth didn't seem to be working properly. It felt heavy, numb, disconnected; very similar to how the rest of his body felt at the moment. What was happening?

A wave of fear washed over him as he tried to find his way out of the dense fog surrounding him. He tried to force his eyes open to take in his surroundings, but to no avail. How much did he drink last night? What happened? Where was he? How many Vicodin had he taken? Dreaming? The fragments of thoughts and memories were currently scattered throughout his mind like pieces of a complicated jigsaw puzzle strewn across the floor.

He slowly turned his head toward the ceiling and tried to will his ten-ton eyelids open, but he quickly regretted the move. Immediately, liquid filled his nose and mouth as his breath caught in his throat. It felt like someone had forced his face under water, threatening to suffocate him. Gasping, trying to fight to the surface, he sucked in as much air as possible through before letting out a weak cough, covering his shirt and the floor in front of him with various sized red speckles.

"House!" Wilson yelled, pushing him back on his side.

"Stop!" Relax!" I've got you." It was Wilson's reassuring yet firm voice that finally broke through the haze in his brain. He stopped struggling as he felt his body roll back to the right and his airway opening up once again as Wilson brought him back up to the surface. Gasping for air, he relished in the return of oxygen to his deprived lungs.

Voices seemed to be murmuring off in the distance, but he couldn't make out what was being said. Wilson was talking softly to him. Something about an ambulance. Ambulance? As the oxygen returned to his brain and the cobwebs were cleared, he started piecing the puzzle together. Wilson. Bar. Biker idiot. Argument. They all started falling back into place. Then nothing. What had happened? He remembered the guy turning around. A glimpse of wood...pool stick.

Just as the realization hit him, pain descended on House all at at once, like the sudden, blinding flare of restored power after a thunderstorm.

The entire left side of his face felt swollen and began to throb in rhythm with his increasing heart rate. Most of the pain seemed to be in his jaw, which felt strangely detached and didn't seem to want to do any more than hang loosely open.

Working his way down the rest of his body, he continued taking inventory. His right shoulder--the one that was currently wedged under his prone body--was protesting loudly, a sharp stabbing pain emanating from the joint. Other places seemed to be jockeying for position at the front of the line, yelling for attention; the right side of his head, right elbow, right hip. And then there was the ever-present right leg that never seemed to take a break from tormenting him.

Finally, his eyes fluttered open, taking in the view from his current position on his right side. Squinting from the harsh lights that were setting off fireworks in his brain, he took in his surroundings. They appeared fuzzy, distorted. Maybe it had something to do with one side of his face being smashed against the floor, the other half obscured by something cold and wet being pushed against his swelling cheek. Something stunk like stale beer, assaulting his nostrils with the sour smell. The legs of an overturned bar stool lay sideways a few feet in front of him, the steel legs reflecting the neon lights in a rainbow of hues.

He dopily stared at the upturned legs of the stool, each one sticking out like a barrel of a rifle; strong, rigid, unscathed. On any other day, he wouldn't wish to be a barstool with random asses sitting on him, but right now he envied it. Someone could just pick him up and set him back on his solid metal legs, none the worse for wear. He really didn't care whose ass sat on him, it sure beat lying on the floor of this god-awful, bacteria laden shithole, unable to move an inch without wanting to scream.

His right leg responded as if jealous of the barstool, and it was starting to let it be known how pissed off it was for having to take the brunt of the fall. A sharp, constant burning was creeping into his thigh, unrelenting. The pain was growing in intensity as the nerve synapses continued to reconnect. He needed to get off his right side _now._

"Laaay..." House tried to convey the message to his friend who was still wedged up against his back, holding him steady. He couldn't seem to enunciate his words, his mouth and jaw refusing to cooperate.

Just then, an ugly maroon and blue paisley tie flopped in front of his face, giving him a lovely close-up view of Wilson's bad taste in apparel. Wilson's face appeared seconds later, those brown eyes and bushy eyebrows upside down and inches in front of his nose. He could hear the slightly elevated rate of respirations coming from his worried friend.

"House?" Wilson answered a bit breathlessly.

"Laaay..." He reached down with a shaky left hand towards his right thigh, his right arm still trapped under his body.

"Leg?" Nodding slightly, House squeezed his eyes closed as the pain in his leg ramped up another notch, causing him to reflexively tense his other muscles which in turn set off the other injuries, most notably his shoulder.

"Nnnnnnhh..." House groaned as he rode out the wave, wincing in response which sent another sharp pang through the left side of his face. It was hitting him from every direction. No matter which way he moved, the pain was there to greet him.

"You. Come here. Hold this gently but firmly…just like this." He felt the pressure change against his face a bit as Wilson passed the job of 'towel holder' onto someone else. He was gonna have one hell of a shiner after this...

Wilson's leg brushed against his left side as he felt his friend crawl over the top of him, straddling him for a moment. Oh, how badly he wanted to make a snide comment about the place and time for those things, but just couldn't muster the strength or spare the oxygen at the moment.

The sound of a table being dragged across the floor filled his ears, grinding and squeaking against the tiles. He squeezed his eyes closed to combat the skull piercing shrieks of metal against cheap tile.

"Hey, you still with me?" House slowly opened his eyes to respond. A sideways Wilson was right in front of him again, this time the rest of his body attached to the eyebrows and tie.

"Yeah..." He managed to get out. "Lay hursss..." he slurred.

It felt like someone was digging their knuckles into his injured thigh, the constant pressure setting off the misfiring nerves. The muscles were becoming more rigid, threatening to spasm as they involuntarily contracted from the unwanted stimulus.

"I don't wanna move you yet. Not sure about cervical injuries." That was Wilson: the epitome of proper first aid etiquette.

"Ness... hine..." House pressed out, but Wilson was unable to decode his garbled message.

After attempting to repeat himself, House demonstrated by moving his neck slightly to the left and right then gently up and down, ignoring the protest from his aching shoulder. His thigh was winning out in the 'pay attention to me NOW' department. Defying Wilson's wishes, he started to roll to his left again.

Quickly, Wilson grabbed House's left shoulder, preventing him from rolling any further. "Whoa! I don't want you doing..."

A low groan escaped from House's mouth, growing in intensity as the pain continued to magnify. He wanted to yell "Goddammit! Make it stop!" but found it more productive to grab a fistful of Wilson's sleeve, silently begging for relief from the inferno igniting in his thigh.

Wilson seemed to get the message and gently guided House onto his back. But as he changed position, his right arm suddenly shifted under the release of the pressure. A new surge of agony washed over the upper right half of his body. He cried out in pain, his left hand knocking against Wilson's outstretched arm as it fumbled towards the source of his torment. Squeezing his shoulder tightly, he held his breath and waited for the endorphins to kick in and save him._ Just shoot me now._

As the pain receded from a five-alarm fire to a two-story blaze, he started panting through his partially open mouth, his breathing wet and raspy. The heavy metallic taste of blood became prevalent in the back of his throat, making him want to gag and choke. He swallowed thickly, feeling the viscous fluid slide down his throat like a giant slimy oyster.

His leg felt like it had become involved in a tug-of-war...and Wilson was winning. Another moan rumbled deep inside his chest as his leg endured the tugging and pulling from hurried hands.

"Sorry..." Wilson offered a quick apology.

Something thin and rigid was dragged out from under him, allowing a slight respite from the pain. He let out a gurgled sigh of relief as he felt himself being pushed back to his right.

"It was your cane." Wilson explained. "Any better now?"

A number of sarcastic responses flew through his mind, but settled for a sidelong glance as he struggled to find some iota of comfort.

"Shoulder hurting?" Wilson asked, pushing away House's hand that had a death grip on his leather jacket above said shoulder. He took over palpating the area through the thick material.

"Duh.." he was able to mumble as he made a futile attempt at a glare.

"Feels dislocated." Wilson noted as he felt the odd bump in the front of House's shoulder.

"I'm not touching it. Let the EMTs take care of it." But House was oblivious to Wilson's words. He was concentrating on regulating his breathing. Shaky breaths in and out. His mouth partially open, the side of his right cheek and chin damp with saliva and blood that continued to ooze from the right corner of his mouth. It felt as if his face were glued to the floor by his own sticky fluids. It was getting more difficult to see out of his left eye, the swelling in his cheek creeping up under his lower eyelid, into his line of sight.

Sirens were heard from a distance, growing in volume as the ambulance neared the bar.

"Keep holding that ice, I'll be right back." Wilson must've been talking to the person on the other side of the towel again.

A few moments of relative quiet passed as he lay there, trying to listen for signs of Wilson's return.

The volume of Wilson's voice slowly increased as he came back within earshot. He was rambling off symptoms and stats. "...ty eight year old male. Was hit by a pool cue. Trauma to left side of face. Possible mandibular fracture. Patient complaining of right shoulder pain. Pre-existing injury to right quad with possible further blunt trauma to the area. He's had about four beers and... " there was a pause. "He's on Vicodin. Last dose was probably about an hour ago."

Deep down, he would've loved to see the EMT's reactions to the combo of alcohol and opiates. Even in his current state, House was impressed. Wilson sounded like a real doctor.

The sound of heavy soled shoes clambered around him and something sturdy and plastic landed on the floor with a thud. The towel was lifted from his face as a new voice chimed in. "Sir, can you hear me?" _Ahh, the EMTs._

"Call him House." Wilson again.

"Okaaay...House, we're gonna get you outta here, just hang tight." He hardly had the energy to scoff at the EMTs scripted reassurances, especially something as lame as 'hang tight'.

"We're gonna get you stabilized first."

'No, really? I thought you'd just pick me up and fling me into the back of the ambulance.' He wanted to say, but just couldn't muster either the strength or the coordination yet to utter that many syllables.

"I'm sure you're well aware of that." The surfer medic spoke up again. He wasn't sure if that question was addressed directly at him or Wilson. So he ignored it and continued playing possum.

One paramedic was working on immobilizing his leg, even though he knew nothing was seriously wrong with it. It was a bit sore where he'd landed on his cane, but no further damage was done as far as he could tell. He wasn't going to argue or resist until he felt a cervical collar being slipped around his neck. Didn't he tell Wilson his neck was fine? The last thing he wanted right now was to lose the ability to turn his head or to breathe for that matter.

"He said his neck's fine." Wilson intervened. He silently thanked Wilson in his head.

"Safety precaution. You know we have to do it," the tech answered professionally.

House mustered enough strength to swat at the arm currently encircling his head.

"Ness hine!" He proclaimed best he could. Didn't these morons see there were other priorities such as the blood running freely from his nose and mouth? Then there was the shoulder that wouldn't stop screaming at him.

He lifted his head off the floor and turned his bruised and swollen face toward them, sending a threatening stare their direction, probably coming across more as a dumbfounded look since his mouth was still hanging slackly open.

The paramedic seemed to understand him and backed off, removing the collar before it was even fastened in place.

They started to turn House on his back, sending another shock wave down his entire arm, into his fingertips An unintelligible obscenity escaped from his mouth as his left hand immediately shot across to the damaged joint in a futile attempt to protect it from any more abuse. He let the momentum carry him onto his left side and off his bad shoulder. The shift in his jaw from the change in gravity just about sent him through the roof as the focus of the pain returned to his battered face.

A strong hand grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand out of the way then slid under his leather jacket, probing his tender shoulder. The hand receded and he heard clanking sounds coming from the EMT's medical tackle box. A glint of metal caught his eye as he felt his jacket pulled away from his arm. No way. They were not cutting off his jacket no matter how much his damn shoulder was killing him.

The stubborn doctor immediately smacked the other medic's hand, refusing to let him cut off his prized possession.

"Hey! We've got to get a better look at that shoulder."

"Nah cuddi idahf..." He protested incoherently, spurring another coughing fit. God, that hurt. He never realized how hard it was to cough without moving his jaw. His head turned toward the floor and sent more red speckles onto the tiles, creating a lovely mosaic. Immediately, the other medic shoved a gauze pad in front of his face and began wiping up the residual sputum from House's cheek and mouth. He felt like a toddler who had just finished a meal of spaghetti and was being cleaned up by his mommy.

"Uh," he commanded, waving his left hand in the air in an 'up' motion.

Wilson shook his head vehemently. "No way. You can buy a new jacket."

He started levering himself up, the weight of his body taken by his left forearm lying flat against the floor. Leaning his head against his balled up fist, he stopped to catch his breath. The only thing he was able to move was his head about a total of six inches. How pathetic. Sitting up seemed like such an insurmountable feat at the moment.

Suddenly, he felt hands grabbing him gently around his upper back and left shoulder, guiding him to a sitting position. His body rebelled against the movement as the new position sent his head spinning and his shoulder searing with pain. He felt someone behind him, leaning their chest against him as a back support. Wilson.

The sleeve of his jacket was pulled off his left arm and pulled around his back so that only the right sleeve remained on him. Pulled his sleeve off the left arm and pulled the right sleeve down to his elbow then slowly edged it off the injured arm. House grimaced, letting out a hiss as the increased pressure sent shock waves up to his shoulder. However, a few seconds of pain was worth saving his priceless jacket.

He suddenly feared the first signs of shock as he felt chilled and the sweat started running down his back, soaking through his T-shirt.

Closing his eyes, he leaned back against Wilson's chest as the EMT ran his fingers over the tender area, placing his thumb and fingers over the misaligned bones.

His breath hitched and his eyes clamped shut as another jolt shot through his shoulder. They needed to do something with it right now. The pain was getting worse, especially now since he was conscious and aware.

"Looks like an anterior dislocation. Want us to try to rectify it here or do you want to wait for anesthetic and some muscle relaxants?"

He knew it was a dislocation; any moron could diagnose that. He contemplated his options. Either deal with the ever increasing feeling of a knife being twisted in his shoulder until someone in the ER could get to him. Who knew how long that would be? Or have the inexperienced wannabe doctor put it back in place which would probably result in him having to be peeled off the ceiling afterward, but at least he'd have some relief. Option two it was.

House still had his eyes squeezed shut but pointed to the ground with his free hand. He knew it was going to hurt like hell. Subconsciously, he grabbed Wilson's left wrist with his left hand, preparing himself for the inevitable shock to his system.

"Okay, now try to relax as much as possible."

Relax, right. House took a deep breath and tried to will his muscles to heed his request as the EMT took a strong hold of his upper arm.

In one swift movement, his arm was pulled down and back and a verbal "pop" was heard as the joint slipped back into place. A scream echoed throughout the room.

--


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Yes, this story is back. It was on a slight hiatus as Monster Truck Mayhem took over my mind. I'm going to try to alternate chapters between this story and my other one. Hope that's okay. I'm doing my best.**

**Thanks to all who have read, reviewed, added this to their alerts. It is all appreciated, otherwise I would've given up on this a long time ago. And a big thanks to Magie05 for all her help!**

Chapter 5

House thought he was going to pass out. His entire right arm, from his neck to his fingertips, felt like someone had shoved a dagger into his shoulder and twisted it unmercifully. The earlier scream was replaced by a low, guttural moan emanating from deep in his throat. But within a few seconds the sharp dagger that had been lodged in his shoulder was replaced with a butter knife, the pain significantly diminishing as the bones were popped back into place.

He leaned his head back against Wilson's chest again, panting with relief as he fought off the dizziness threatening to overcome him. In a few moments, his breathing evened out as he cradled his right arm against his midsection.

"Better?" He felt the word rumble inside Wilson's chest, resonating through his throbbing head. House tried to nod, the neck brace constricting his movement. He closed his eyes in an attempt to separate himself from the pain, the curious stares, the incompetent EMTs...the fact that he was in Wilson's arms which, for some strange reason, felt oddly comforting.

He'd always tried to avoid any physical contact with his best friend. It was difficult enough after the infarction when Wilson had been the only one left to help tend to his needs, lugging his useless body around like a sack of potatoes; in and out of the bathtub, into the car, on and off the couch...sometimes off the floor after a misplaced step or slip, as he struggled to learn to walk again, a skinny piece of wood replacing his once strong and muscular right leg.

Any dignity he had remaining was flushed down the toilet along with his crap when Wilson had to hold him steady on the damn toilet seat , even his body's most natural functions had been complicated by a useless right leg and near unbearable pain. It was pitiful. _He_ was pitiful.

For years following his initial recovery, he couldn't stand it when Wilson would offer a steadying hand, a reassuring pat on the back, a casual shoulder rub. Each attempt at contact brushed away by a yank of his arm or a vigorous shrug of his shoulder, shaking off the unwanted contact. The last thing House wanted was his friendship turning into some kind of pity party. He didn't want Wilson remaining his friend out of some moral obligation.

He'd fought hard to keep from becoming a charity case but right now, for some reason he couldn't comprehend, Wilson's touch had never felt so welcomed.

Suddenly, another pair of hands were on his back as he was gently pulled forward, bending at the waist as an Ace bandage was wound around his torso, pinning his right arm tightly against his body. Crude, but efficient. He felt like a mummy being prepared for burial.

"That's a nice look for you," Wilson teased, trying to ease the tension. "Very form fitting. Brings out your curves."

"huck 'ou," House mumbled through his open mouth, the scathing remark not quite coming out the way he had intended.

He would have added to his retort if a suction tube hadn't been shoved into his mouth. The snapping sound of viscous fluids being sucked through the saliva ejector sent him back to those early visits to the dentist; that annoying plastic tube hanging off the corner of his mouth while the dentist worked on his teeth.

One of the EMTs spoke up. "Alright. Let's get you out of here." Wilson's hands crept under his left arm and around his back as the two paramedics positioned themselves to take the rest of House's weight evenly. One hand inched closer to his right thigh, his muscles tensed in anticipation of a misplaced grip around his already angry leg.

Wilson either saw what was happening or suddenly became psychic.

"Watch that right thigh," Wilson instructed, "pre-existing injury."

Fingers slid from his thigh to under his ass and lower back as House started wondering if he should have dealt with the additional pain instead of the indignity of being felt up by some stranger.

Someone counted to three and he was lifted and placed on a padded gurney quickly and efficiently. He remained in an upright position, thankful he wouldn't be drowning in his own fluids any time soon. Straps were pulled across his legs and midsection and secured tightly, making him feel like some kind of escaped patient from an insane asylum. Did they think he'd miraculously jump up and run out the back door? _Yeah, right_. He couldn't even open his eyes right now without vomiting.

As he was lying there waiting to be transported, he realized a familiar voice had been missing from the hum of his surroundings.

His eyes slowly cracked open, the left one allowing no more than a slit in his already blurry vision. As he tried to raise his hand to gain attention, he came up against resistance, the gurney's strap pinning his arm to his side. Frustrated, he began to wiggle his arm around, trying to free it from the nylon entrapment. Another wave of nausea washed over him as he panted from the exertion, eventually giving up, his hand flopping next to his hip in frustration.

Wilson had to still be around here somewhere. He tried turning his head, but to no avail: the cervical collar was doing its job, restricting movement in every direction. The hanging fluorescent lights and the brownish stains on the plain white drywall ceiling the only objects in his line of sight. His eyes shifted downward to try to catch a glimpse of a white shirt and ugly tie, but could only make out the navy blue uniform of one of the techs busily packing up the medical tackle box. _Where is he? _

His heart began pounding furiously in his chest as a surge of panic washed over him. _Please tell me he didn't leave me alone with these incompetent idiots._ He struggled against the restraints holding him on the gurney, ignoring the pain radiating from his shoulder.

_"_Hey! Take it easy!_" _ Fingers wrapped around his left shoulder, a reassuring pat came from a navy blue sleeve that must have been attached to one of the EMTs. His breathing was rapidly increasing, shallow pants coming from his slack mouth as he shrugged the hand off his shoulder, setting off his shoulder and jaw as they both shifted with the movement. He gasped in response, inhaling the mixture of blood and saliva pooled in the back of his throat. His cough reflex kicked in, sending the thick, stringy red tinted mucous splattering over that same navy blue sleeve that had been patting him condescendingly. _ Serves you right_.

The suction was shoved back in his mouth, almost gagging him as the medic tried removing his tonsils with the vacuum tube.

The gurney started to move, but still no sign of Wilson. Where the hell was he? Maybe Wilson had finally gotten smart and left him there to fend for himself. After all, it was his own stupidity and self-destructive streak that had put him in this predicament in the first place. He couldn't blame Wilson if he had decided to just march out the front door, away from this mess. Away from him.

"stah'.." House forced out through They kept rolling towards the exit. "stah!" The gurney stopped moving and he mustered up enough strength and oxygen to yell " 'ilson!" His lips refusing to meet to form the 'W' sound. God, he sounded pathetic.

Footsteps shuffled up behind him and he felt his body involuntarily relax when the familiar hand touched him on the forearm. "I'm right here. I was just talking to the bartender for a minute. Did you need something?"

_Besides making sure you hadn't left me alone with these losers?_

When had he turned into such a wuss? Some time between getting leveled by the moron with the short temper til now, Wilson had somehow become his safety net, his pacifier, his security blanket. His mind raced in an attempt to cover his own pathetic need to have his friend there to hold his hand like he was a five-year-old going to the hospital to have his tonsils removed.

"Cane... Jacket," he managed to mumble somewhat coherently.

"Already got them." Wilson turned his back briefly before pivoting back around, jacket and cane dangling from his fingers.

"See? Aren't you lucky to have me?" Wilson smiled reassuringly, but House could see the slight worry hidden under the confident facade, making him wonder how bad he really looked right now. He could only imagine what his face must look like.

The gurney started moving again, Wilson floating along next to it as they headed for the door. Upon leaving the dark and dingy bar and entering the lit parking lot, he caught the glint of something metallic reflecting in the corner of his good eye. Crap, his bike.

"y 'ike..." He shifted his half-lidded eyes to the right where his motorcycle was parked under the lights like some bright orange, white and black horse awaiting its rider.

"I'll take care of it. Want me to ride it home for you?" Wilson joked. It was a lame joke at that. House knew Wilson would not even sit on the thing, let alone attempt to drive the 100+ horsepower beast. Wilson probably thought the thing would turn around and bite him in the leg if he tried.

A scene from Pee Wee's Big Adventure somehow found its way to the forefront of House's rattled brain. The sight of Pee Wee Herman mounting the motorcycle given to him by the biker gang and then wobbling off, out of control, eventually biting the dust just yards from his original starting point.

Wilson's face replaced Peewee's and House smiled inwardly at the visual in his head. Someday he'd get Wilson on the back of his bike, but unfortunately It looked like it was going to be a while until that wish came true.

"Uh...no. Tow it hoe..." he mumbled, hoping he was understood.

"Did you just call me a ho?" Wilson asked, clutching his chest in shock.

"Ha ha..." Now his best friend was making fun of his misfortune.

Wilson dropped the kidding for a moment. "Tow it back to your place?"

House nodded, his right eye focused on the fuzzy figure in front of him, the left one relatively useless at the moment, lost somewhere under swollen tissue.

"Sure. I'll call a tow truck and meet you at the hospital," Wilson reassured him.

He felt a gentle squeeze of assurance around his left forearm as he let his eyes fall closed. His head was killing him and the entire left side of his face felt like balloon had been inflated inside his cheek. He wanted so badly to reach up and feel his face, see if he really did resemble the Elephant Man now, but he was trapped. Strapped down like cheap cargo.

The gurney was lifted and he felt himself slide into the back of the ambulance, the sound of metal clattering on the floor of the vehicle. A small part of him wished Wilson was there with him. Someone familiar. Someone who was a real doctor. Someone he could trust.

--

Once he was out of House's line of sight, Wilson dropped the reassuring mask and exposed his worried face once more. He jogged toward his car and tossed House's cane and jacket on the passenger seat as adrenaline coursed through his body, making every movement feel tight, uncoordinated. His hands shook uncontrollably as he tried to put his key in the ignition, adding a few new scratches to the steering column.

As he fumbled around inside his car, Wilson's mind tried to decipher some logical explanation for his friend's actions, but then this was House he was talking about. House never needed explanation. Never needed a reason. Never thought about possible consequences.

When would the man learn to keep his big mouth shut? Why did he pick THAT guy to annoy? Maybe House _wanted _this. It was how his twisted mind worked. He'd either push the people away who were trying to help him or he'd pop too many pills, or induce a migraine, or piss off certain members of the police force and get thrown in jail. This was just another one of those idiotic attempts at creating a distraction; an escape from reality. When he lost control over a situation, he needed to regain that control, usually by using something he was all too familiar with: pain.

Banging the heels of his hands against the steering wheel, he released a string of obscenities before flopping back against his leather seat in an attempt to regain some kind of composure. Taking a few cleansing breaths, he focused on releasing some of the tension from his rigid muscles.

He picked up his cell phone, pressing #3 on the speed dial. It rang four times until the familiar sound of Dr. Cuddy's recorded voice filled his left ear. Not wanting to leave a cryptic message involving House and the hospital, he pressed the end call button. Pausing for a few seconds, he glanced at his watch. 11:14pm. Of course Cuddy wouldn't still be at work. She didn't live there, even though sometimes it seemed like she did. He fought with his own indecision before deciding to press #4.

"Hello...?" a sleepy feminine voice answered.

"Hey, it's Wilson. I'm sorry to wake you. I know it's late, but House did something stupid and is on his way to the hospital." His voice sounded tight; in fact, his entire body felt like one gigantic overwound rubberband.

There was a heavy sigh, the type of sigh filled with disappointment and concern, like a mother receiving a call from school about her disruptive child. "What did he do now? Or should I ask who he pissed off this time?"

"A guy at this bar. Some biker. Decided to use House's face for batting practice."

"Dammit," Cuddy muttered under her breath, "when is that man going to learn?"

"You're talking about House here."

"I know, I know. How bad? Facial trauma? Head trauma? Is he conscious?"

"Well, he was conscious when they loaded him, but I think he was out for a minute or so. Possible concussion. Something's definitely up with his jaw. It's probably fractured or dislocated. He couldn't open or close."

"He'll need someone from oral-maxillofacial then."

"Yeah. I thought you might be able to tell me who's working tonight." Wilson heard shuffling and rustling in the background. "I'm sure the EMTs have already made the call to the ER. Who's on call right now?"

"Give me a second..." The sound of a chair scraping across the floor resounded through the earpiece. "Uhhh..." fingers tapped on a computer keyboard, "it's Gilreath."

"You've got to be kidding. That guy hates House with a passion."

"Well, that's House's problem. If he'd make an attempt to be civil to the other staff members once in a while..."

Wilson wasn't in the mood to listen to Cuddy's rant about House and his lack of socialization skills. "Could you _please_ give Stec a call? At least he and House respect each other. We used to golf together. He can handle pretty much anything House throws at him."

Another sigh. "I'll see what I can do."

"He'll probably need someone from Orthopedics to look at his shoulder, too. I don't care who." Wilson paused again. "Oh, and if you can get a hold of Masterson, he landed pretty hard on his right side and will need his leg checked out. "

"What the hell did the guy do? Hit him with a two-by-four?"

"Close. A pool cue."

"I _thought _you went over to his place to keep him from doing anything stupid?" Cuddy sounded a little uptight--not that he blamed her--but why was she taking it out on him? He wasn't House's babysitter, even though sometimes that's what he felt like.

"I tried! What am I supposed to do? Tie him to his couch?"

"Yes!" Cuddy responded vehemently. "What did you think would happen after today's fiasco?"

He tried to keep House in check. He really did. But the man was supposedly old enough to take care of himself, even though he continued to prove otherwise.

"Listen. It's not MY fault he can't keep his big mouth closed."

He heard the metallic thud as the ambulance doors slammed shut. "Listen, they're getting ready to go and I don't want to be on the phone while I'm driving." He didn't want to admit to Cuddy that he was having a hard enough time keeping it together enough to make the short trek to PPTH.

"All right. Keep me informed. I don't care what time it is. Please call me."

"I will." He pressed the "end call" button and sat staring at the speedometer for a moment, the numbers blurring together as his eyes focused on nothing but his friend, semi-conscious and bleeding.

The siren on the ambulance startled Wilson back to the present as he nearly jumped out of his seat in response.He glanced over at House's motorcycle, reminding himself to call a tow truck later, then realizing he'd forgotten House's helmet. He ran back into the bar as fast as possible, grabbed it and ran back out, panting as he climbed into his car and followed the sound of wailing sirens, breaking the speed limit for a change.

--

Inside the ambulance, the techs were dealing with one miserable patient. House kept trying to swallow in a feeble attempt to keep the four beers and the complimentary pretzels from reemerging from his roiling stomach, the movement of the ambulance exacerbating his already compromised equilibrium. He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to block out the dizzying effects of the swaying ambulance and the paramedic suctioning his mouth. He felt like one of the coma patients, incapable of swallowing his own spit, drooling all over himself. How pathetic.

He made the mistake of opening his eyes. The world spun in a giant whirlpool of blues and reds in front of his vision. The faces of the medics distorting and undulating like some strange drug-induced psychedelic dream. It reminded him of a bad trip he'd had during a concert back in the 70's. Was it Pink Floyd? Led Zeppelin? Not that it mattered.

This sent him over the edge, his body fully rebelling as the nausea washed over him and he lost the battle with his gut. Gesturing wildly with his left hand that was still pinned down, he pointed toward his mouth as the tech tried to interpret the gesture, suddenly understanding as he whipped around to grab a nearby emesis basin. The other medic helped to push him onto his left side.

A colorful mixture of vomit and blood splattered across the left side of his face, his chin, the neck brace, his shoulder, the gurney and the tech's arm; the plastic bowl only catching about a quarter of the mess. Disgusting.

The stench of vomit overwhelmed the stagnant air inside the tight quarters making House silently thankful he wasn't a sympathy puker. The suction was shoved back into his mouth to clean out the remnants of the spew.

God, he wanted some water. His mouth tasted like a combination of stale beer, pennies and acid. He was rolled onto his back again, panting through his open mouth, trying to regain any dignity he might have had left.

As his breathing slowed and the nausea passed, he started to take inventory of his injuries.

The whole left side of his face felt swollen and puffy. His left sinus felt full, congested. He assumed it was blood since it had been running freely from his left nostril and down the back of his throat. From his perspective he could see the back of the ambulance and the one paramedic to his right but everything was blurry, fuzzy. The small rear window appeared distorted and glowed with elongated beams of light shooting above and below the frame like some kind of apparition. In fact, every light source seemed to have that eerie halo, as if he was looking through a rain-covered windshield at night.

His tongue started exploring his mouth, feeling around for...what, he had no idea.

As his tongue continued probing around, it came upon raw tissue among the row of lower molars. A gap where a tooth used to be. Did the tooth break off or had it come out in one piece? It didn't really matter now since they were already on their way to the hospital and his tooth was either laying somewhere back on that filthy floor in the bar or he had swallowed it. A lose-lose situation for his missing molar.

The gum tissue around the gap was raw and very tender to touch but he continued to gently probe the area, the tip of his tongue sliding across inside of his jaw. A uneven ledge jutted out slightly, running vertically from the empty socket where his tooth had been down towards the floor of his mouth. Fracture line. Crap. He knew what that meant. He felt his heart rate increase as the irrational fear engulfed his entire being. His stomach twisted in a knot as he pictured himself with a mouth full of wires, his jaws clamped shut, his tongue imprisoned behind his teeth for who knew how long. Just the thought alone sent chills down his spine.

Why couldn't the guy have just punched him a few times? Maybe give him a black eye, a few bruised ribs? He hadn't planned on having his face smashed in. He just wanted to feel _something_.

The vehicle slowed, its sirens dying off in a musical descent. He was slightly relieved to see he'd made it to PPTH still alive in the hands of amateurs without choking on his own spit, but breathing seemed to be becoming more and more difficult. In fact, it felt as if his throat was closing, each breath a concentrated effort.

Focused on breathing, he swore he was sucking air through a straw, his lungs burning with the effort. Someone was talking to him, asking if he was having trouble breathing. Stupid question. _Look at my SATs, you idiot._

As if on cue, he heard one of the medics rattle off "SATs are at 96. Down two points." _Thank you. Maybe you're not as dumb as you look._

An oxygen mask was thrust unceremoniously over his face, jarring his aching jaw and sore mouth. He would've yelled an obscenity if he hadn't been trying to conserve the oxygen in his body, each and every molecule becoming more and more precious with the passing minutes.

He was jolted from his rumination as the gurney was roughly lowered to the pavement with a loud clatter of wheels hitting cement. His eyes fluttered open as he stared blankly ahead, the periphery of his vision closing in on him, like he was looking through a narrow tunnel. His eyes shifted around for some sign of Wilson at the entrance to the ER, but to no avail. He blinked a few times, trying to clear the shroud that had draped itself across his line of sight.

Losing the battle with his eyelids, his ears compensated as they picked up random words. "Trauma...SATs...possible concussion...fracture."

He felt himself sliding backwards down the tunnel, losing his grip on the slippery slope.

That familiar voice echoed through the tunnel.

"House. I'm here."

--

**A/N: A serious question here: I have considered turning this into a somewhat slashy fic. Nothing too smutty or graphic but there's such potential for this fic to go the slashy route. I respect your opinions and will let you decide. Please let me know if you want it to stay just friendship or if you would like to see their friendship grow into something more. Thanks.**


	6. Chapter 6

Wired Chapter 6

**A/N: Sincere apologies for the long delay. Yes, I say that often. Let's just say that writer's block sucks and real life tends to get in the way, especially during the summer. Hopefully some of you are still interested in this. Thanks to Magie05 for her help and also to medicgirl who helped me with certain medical aspects of this chapter. Any and all mistakes are mine.**

Chapter 6

"House, I'm here." Wilson's voice full of concern. House didn't look good. His skin was pale and clammy and the left side of his face and shoulder were spattered with what looked like vomit. Wilson cringed as he pictured the ambulance ride over here. He felt slight empathy towards the two paramedics.

An oxygen mask was being held in place by one of the EMTs while the other kept a hold of the suction tube snaking under the mask and into his slack mouth. Both were propelling the gurney quickly and efficiently with their free hands.

Wilson joined the parade towards the entrance as the door slid open automatically in response to their presence.

He jogged along next to House's knees, performing a pirouette on occasion to check his friend's status. House's breathing seemed labored, his chest heaving with the effort.

"Where are his SATs?" he asked, urgency in his voice as they made their way through the short hallway leading to the ER.

"Down to ninety-five from ninety-eight." Not ideal but within normal range...barely.

"House?"

The other man's eyes remained closed as the gasping increased. House's left hand crept its way up from under the loosened strap and had a hold of the gurney, veins prominent and knuckles white from the tension.

"House! Look at me!" Wilson demanded with more conviction as he jogged backwards next to the gurney.

Drowsy eyes crept open; unfocused, distant. Heavy eyelids threatened to fall closed any second. Slowly those vibrant pools of blue turned slightly to the right and made contact with his own worried brown ones as he fought to hold House's attention.

"Relax. Try to control your breathing." Wilson felt like a Lamaze class instructor as he demonstrated by raising his hand as he inhaled then lowering back down upon exhaling.

House seemed to understand as his hand released the rail. Fog coated the oxygen mask with each labored exhalation, appearing then fading like hot breath on a cold window in the middle of winter.

Without warning, House's eyes snapped open and widened with fear as his breath seemed to catch in his throat. A slight wheezing sound was heard as panic set in and House struggled for air.

"SATs have dropped to ninety," a female voice called out as the activity increased around House.

The gurney was wheeled to the nearest bed in the expansive ER room as one of the nurses quickly drew the curtains around them. They transferred House quickly and efficiently to the bed as House stared blankly at the activity around him, his left eye no more than a slit surrounded by different shades of red and purple. His distant gaze drifted around the room, focusing on the doctor and nurses. Then Wilson felt House's eyes fall on him as he stood helplessly in the corner like a punished student.

An IV was started by one of the nurses in, what Wilson thought, was record time as the doctor evaluated House's condition.

Wilson wanted desperately to jump in and take over caring for his friend, but there was no way he could remain objective. He was too close to the patient. Personal feelings and emotions tended to get in the way and cloud one's judgment.

House was one of the most important people in his life, whether Wilson wanted to admit it or not. House was his best friend, even if he was a complete idiot and deserved the ass-kicking he had received.

Instead, Wilson stood back, allowing the ER doctor and nurses to do their jobs as he tried not to chew his fingernails down to stubs.

"Eighty-four. He's going into respiratory arrest." Wilson's own breath caught in his throat when he heard those words as the alarm bells began to chime.

A flash of metal caught Wilson's eye and he flinched as the doctor wedged the laryngoscope into House's partially open mouth, struggling to gain access to House's airway.

"Too much swelling." The doctor glanced around quickly, looking for something. "Get me a smaller gauge tube, now!"

Wilson stood in the corner feeling about as useful as the paint on the wall, his hands clenched in a tight ball of intertwined fingers, his chin lowered against his knuckles. He should be doing something. Anything.

House's eyelids started to flutter as the staff hustled around him. A nurse returned within seconds, shoving the tubing into the doctor's hand as he lowered House into a fully supine position. An order for suctioning bounced off the drawn curtains surrounding the bed. The nurse responded and worked on keeping House from drowning in his own fluids before the doctor had a chance to intubate.

The doctor scanned the immediate area for additional staff, seemingly frustrated. There was no time to spare. "Dr. Wilson, could you give me a hand here?"

Wilson snapped out of 'concerned family member' mode into 'doctor' mode, pushing up his sleeves as he approached the busy ER doctor, whose name he couldn't remember for the life of him. He snapped on a pair of gloves more out of habit than any concern of contamination from his best friend then turned toward the doctor for further instruction.

"Do me a favor. Hold his head still." The ER doc...Lindstrom, that was it…hovered over House's prone form with the tubing in his hand, his eyes fixated on House's nose. Wilson knew what Lindstrom was about to do and he instantly recalled how messy nasotracheal intubation could get and that it was, at best, a lousy experience for the patient. Luckily, House was pretty out of it already and probably wouldn't remember much of the procedure.

Wilson slid next to the right side of House's head and gently but firmly grasped just above the temples, careful to avoid any of his injuries. He could feel House's damp hair and sweat against his own gloved fingers, the heat permeating through the thin latex.

Before he even had time to offer a nod that he was ready, Lindstrom was already shoving the tube quickly up House's right nostril like a plumber routing a pipe. This generated a deep moan from House as the doctor continued to feed the tube up his nose and down his throat. The moan turned into a strangled howl as House's nose erupted like Mt. Vesuvius.

Blood gushed out of House's nose like fast moving lava, covering everything in its path. It cascaded over House's cheek, lips and chin and onto the cervical collar still fastened around his neck. Small streams of crimson branched off and trickled onto Wilson's rolled-up left sleeve that was pressed against House's right cheek.

Wilson knew bleeding was very common with the procedure, but his eyes widened in shock at the sheer amount flowing over not only House's face, but onto him and Lindstrom as well.

House put up a fight and struggled against Wilson's grip. Refusing to budge until he got the okay from Lindstrom, Wilson kept his firm hold, biceps bulging with the effort as he found himself in a wrestling match. The man was strong, even when deprived of oxygen and half conscious. Well...fully conscious for the moment.

"Ten milligrams of Diazepam-stat!"

Wilson did his best to calm the combative patient while the drug was administered through the IV. A strong left hand wrapped itself around his own right forearm and pulled hard, his grip slipping off the other man's head.

"House!"

The resistance and thrashing continued.

"House! Listen to me!" Wilson tried to ease his own tension-filled voice, figuring a calm, soothing tone would be more effective than screaming and yelling. "You need to relax. Try to hold still."

The writhing and wiggling lessened as he held his firm grip. The clamp around his forearm eased as he watched House's limp hand land softly back on the mattress. Either House had heard his pleas and decided to listen or the drug was starting to take effect. Either way, it made for a much more cooperative patient.

"Almost done." Wilson's reassuring voice cut through the background noises of the organized chaos in the ER, unsure if House even heard him.

Lindstrom's blood-smeared hands released the inserted tube as a nurse stepped in to attach an ambubag and start pumping life back into House's oxygen-deprived lungs, his chest rising with each squeeze of the bag.

At Lindstrom's nod, Wilson released his grip and let his shoulders sag in relief, his muscles shaking, unsure if it was from the recent exertion or from sheer adrenaline.

House's SATs quickly returned back to normal with the established airway and assisted breathing. A ventilator took over the nurse's job, hissing and sighing in a steady rhythm, breathing for the stubborn jackass lying on the bed.

No matter how many times he watched House fight for his life, it never got any easier. Whether it stemmed from House's own stubbornness or from a crazed gunman's bullet or a doctor's mistake or from House's own stupidity and incessant need to solve the puzzle, it was something Wilson would never get used to seeing. How could he? How could someone stand by and watch his friend cheat death for the umpteenth time? He swore the man had nine lives, but how many were left? One? Maybe two? He really didn't want to think about the dwindling number right now.

The nurse returned to suctioning House's mouth once again as Lindstrom stepped back, removing his soiled gloves and tossing them in the biohazard container with a heavy sigh. "I want a panorex and head CT ASAP. And X-rays of that right shoulder." The nurse nodded and turned away.

The gurney was already being wheeled out of the room. Wilson took a step to follow when a hand landed on his shoulder. "He's stable. Why don't you take a break and grab some coffee? It's gonna be a while. Oh, and thanks for the help."

Wilson wanted to run down the hall after House; watch over him to make sure no other complications arose. It was _House_, after all. Everything about the man was complicated. Fighting against his natural instinct to go protect his friend, he copied Lindstrom's actions and pitched his own gloves in the bin. "Glad I could do something besides get in the way." He tried to sound confident and poised but was sounding more like a new intern after experiencing his first major emergency, voice shaky and unsure.

"We've been a little shorthanded around here with all of the budget cuts...but that's another story." Wilson felt a pang of guilt, recalling a recent vote the board had made to cut back on the nursing staff.

"I think I'll go grab that coffee," Wilson said, suddenly wanting to escape from the subject of conversation.

"Uhhh...you might want to clean up a bit first. Don't want to scare anyone."

Wilson looked down and noticed the red stains on the inside of his rolled up sleeve. Several spots had managed to decorate the front of his shirt as well.

"I've got a clean shirt in my office," Wilson said, "Keep me informed, would you?"

Lindstrom responded with a nod as Wilson turned and headed toward the elevator, staring down at his shirt as he walked.

--

Wilson sat in the corner of the ER waiting room, trying to remain inconspicuous as he awaited word on House's condition. He had gone upstairs to his office and donned an identical dress shirt to the one that had been soiled with House's blood. That one had been balled up and tossed into a biohazard bin on his way to check on House. Out of sight, out of mind, even though that philosophy didn't seem to be working for him at the moment. All he kept seeing was House covered in blood, gasping for every breath.

His tie had been discarded and he had left the top buttons open, opting for comfort over looking professional. Besides, it was the middle of the night and he honestly didn't care what others thought of his appearance right now. Besides, it helped him blend in with the other concerned loved ones scattered about the waiting room. He idly wondered what had brought the other patients into the ER in the middle of the night. Domestic disturbance? Car accident? Drunken idiocy?

As he swallowed the lukewarm remains of his coffee overloaded with cream and sugar, Lindstrom opened the door and motioned to Wilson with a nod of his head to follow him.

They huddled together in front of the viewer as they looked over the scans.

"As you can see, the left side's fractured here and here," pointing to the middle of the jaw bone where two distinct jagged lines were visible, "displaced. He'll need surgery to repair that." Wilson nodded grimly. Of course House would need surgery. Since when did the man ever do something simple like get a hangnail?

"There's also a smaller fracture on the right side. Probably do to the impact. Who's doing the surgery?"

"Stec. He's on his way," Wilson answered, his voice devoid of emotion. _Three fractures. Shit. _

"Stec's good," Lindstrom reassured, picking up on Wilson's concern. "He's gonna be fine. You can go in there and wait with him if you'd like. They're prepping him now."

"I know he'll be fine. He just...he can be a real idiot sometimes."

"Well, we all have our moments."Wilson pondered that thought briefly before coming to the conclusion that yes, we can all be idiots sometimes, but we're usually smart enough to keep our mouths shut when large, angry people with potential weapons are threatening us. House never knew when to shut his mouth and stop pushing the wrong buttons. Now it had cost him...again.

"Yeah. Some more than others..." he mumbled as he turned and headed through the double doors leading to pre-op.

--

The pre-op area was surprisingly quiet; the only sounds were the soft, comforting murmurs of the nurses prepping the other patients for surgery. It was a pleasant escape from the madhouse that was the ER.

Wilson made his way around the maze of green curtains drawn around each bed meant to give the patient at least an iota of privacy as nurses inserted IVs and slid those ugly surgical bonnets over their patients' heads.

After interrupting two other patients by yanking open the curtains, he politely apologized and moved on to the last bed.

Grabbing the edge of the fabric, he slowly peaked in first, not wanting to startle some old lady into cardiac arrest. It was empty. The entire bed was gone along with its occupant and subsequent IV accessories. House had already been moved into surgery. Stec was either here or almost here and must have called ahead to have his assistants prepare everything in advance so he could dive right in when he arrived. Smart thinking.

He exited the prep area and made his way towards the OR area. There had to be a nurse or someone around who could tell him which OR they had taken House to. That, or he could do it the old-fashioned way and look through the window until he recognized someone or something familiar. It would probably be tough to recognize anyone having--

"Ahh. There you are." Wilson turned toward the familiar voice, happy and relieved to see the maxillofacial surgeon and former golf partner. Dr. Peter Stec approached him, already dressed in blue scrubs. He was shorter than Wilson recalled. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was usually sitting down in the cafeteria when they would exchange friendly hellos.

The doctor offered a hand to Wilson, who shook it politely, "They said you were back here."

"Thanks for coming in. Hope I didn't pull you away from anything too important."

"No, not really. Just sleep. It's overrated anyway, right?" he joked.

Wilson smiled in response. "Well, I appreciate you coming in. Because he'll never say it and Gilreath would have had him castrated on the table. "

He recalled how House had ratted the surgeon out to his wife, announcing to the entire crowd at the recent fundraiser dinner about how he had caught Gilreath and a therapist in the physical therapy room after hours, giving the exercise mat a workout.

"No problem. He'd do the same for me if I was dying of some strange disease...at least I hope he would. You know, this may sound crazy, but I sort of miss playing golf with him. He made it...interesting, to say the least."

Wilson couldn't help but dredge up old memories of their golf games, when House would casually swing his club onto his shoulder and promptly make fun of every other golfer unfortunate enough to be within earshot. Whether it was some strange, unorthodox swing or someone's poor taste in golf fashion, House would find a flaw.

House had been a decent golfer with a smooth swing and a tremendous drive. Now their games consisted of hitting fluorescent balls through farmhouses and through plastic cow's legs with House using the golf club as a cane, leaning on the flimsy putter for extra support as he hobbled around the course.

Wilson replied,"oh, yeah. Leave it to House to make things interesting, as you so aptly put it." He paused a moment and lowered his head, "And yeah, I miss it too."

Stec turned toward Wilson as he prepared to push through the double doors leading to the surgical ward. "I'll let you know how everything goes as soon as possible." Wilson nodded appreciatively.

Everyone was treating him as if he was House's wife. Did his face really give away his concern for his best friend? They all knew that he was really the only person who cared about the stubborn idiot.

He wanted so much _not_ to care. He wanted to walk back out through the front doors of the hospital, rewind the clock. He wanted to go back to House's place and start this night all over again.

Maybe he would have heeded Cuddy's request and chained House to the leg of his coffee table. Or maybe he could have physically dragged House to an Applebee's or a TGIF's and ignored House's protests.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda. No sense in dwelling on what can't be changed. The only thing he knew for sure was that his friend would never change. He swore the man was going to give him an ulcer one of these days.

"Thanks," was all he managed as he headed for the observation deck, a worried hand finding its way to the back of his neck.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

**A/N: Another update. I know, it's been way too long. What else is new? I could keep blaming real life and my incessant need to edit everything to death, but you've all heard it before. **

**Wilson will be much more prevalent in the next chapter. Meanwhile, you can suffer through this one. :)**

Chapter 7

Something was ringing in his left ear: a high-pitched whine, like the sound produced by one of those annoying machines that tested your hearing. He wanted to yell, "Yes, I hear the tone, now shut the damn thing off!" but his mouth (and for that matter, the rest of his body) refused to respond.

He took his first conscious breath as sounds of talking women, beeping monitors and his own breathing were muffled by the constant buzzing coming from his left side. It was annoying to say the least.

But soon his ringing ear became irrelevant, as the overwhelming taste of metal flooded his mouth. It was as if a pocketful of change had been dumped in there, kicking his salivary glands into overdrive. The viscous fluid pooled around the base of his tongue, causing him to swallow thickly, setting off another flare in his already sore throat.

As he swallowed, something brushed up against the back of his throat. Something hard. Something that didn't belong there. His gag reflex responded immediately, involuntarily trying to dislodge the intrusive object.

Dry, cracked lips parted as he sucked in air through metal wires, rubber bands and teeth, sounding like a cornered snake. The hissing increased as he tried to raise his right hand, his shoulder protesting loudly at the sudden strain placed on the damaged tendons and ligaments.

His arm was trapped against his midsection, only increasing the claustrophobic feeling threatening to consume him. The other hand darted up to the hardware covering his teeth in a feeble attempt to remove the offending bands and wires.

The sound of shuffling feet interrupted his desperate action as a firm but gentle grip encircled his left wrist, pulling his hand away from his mouth.

"Dr. House! We need you to settle down. Just relax." Soothing words laced with a touch of agitation as the strong hands held his arm firmly.

"Cn't brea--." He gasped as he felt his throat constrict like a rope straining between a ship and its mooring, closing off the exchange of precious oxygen. Another gag as the object grazed the back of his throat once again, his head jerking forward in response.

Fighting against the overwhelming urge to vomit, he pushed his tongue forward to find some freedom and space, but it was trapped behind two rows of clenched teeth, unable to escape the impenetrable barrier of enamel.

Suddenly, his tongue felt too large for his closed mouth as the panic began to take hold of every muscle in his body. The warm rush of adrenaline shot through each fiber as his heart rate and blood pressure rose in conjunction.

He thrust his head back, raising his chin towards the ceiling as he clawed at his throat, feet kicking futilely. Hopefully these nurses were smart enough to identify the universal sign for choking.

The nurse stood above him, watching the monitors and holding his wrist like he was some kind of juvenile delinquent. Why was she just standing there? _Do something!_he thought as he started to wonder if this was _it. _After everything he'd been through. After everything he'd put in his body and everything he had _done_to his body,never did he think he'd end up finally leaving this planet due to a simple case of asphyxiation.

A call for Ativan from the staff doctor snapped him out of his pondering. Was the idiot doctor implying that this was just a simple anxiety attack? Couldn't they see he was getting hypoxic? His limbs were starting to tingle and blackness crept into his field of vision. If they didn't do something soon, he'd black out and-

He caught a glimpse of a blurry white coat through the limited vision of his left eye. The white apparition stopped near his heaving left shoulder and produced a plastic syringe seemingly out of thin air. Neat trick, but he didn't need a damned sedative, he needed oxygen! The syringe was quickly injected into his IV port before he could even attempt any kind of rebellion. Not that he had the strength to put up...

The drug hit his system like a sledgehammer. Muscles turned to Jell-O as he melted back into the sheets. All coherent thoughts left him as he drifted off into a deep slumber, the monitors retaining a steady rhythm.

--

He was floating; arms and legs suspended effortlessly amidst an endless ocean. The water surrounded him. Supported him. The sound of his own breathing filled his head, as if he was a scuba diver deep below the surface hearing nothing more than the soft hiss of air being exchanged through his respiratory system. It was dark and peaceful. He wanted to stay here forever.

Something cold made contact with the side of his head, sending goosebumps down his arms and legs. After a few moments, the initial shock subsided, leaving behind a cool, soothing blanket that seemed to be helping to extinguish the fire in his jaw. He drifted back to sleep.

A familiar voice cut through the murky depths of his mind. He couldn't pinpoint the owner of said voice, but he'd heard it before. He fought with himself whether to open his eyes or stay in this twisted version of Neverland. He opted for the latter.

A sharp stab on the bottom of his foot sent an involuntary jerk throughout his entire body, setting off his nerves like a pack of firecrackers, pulling him sharply out of his tranquil bliss.

Adding fuel to the fire, a blinding light assaulted his right eye, causing him to recoil away from the source. He tried to swat the intrusive light away but met with strong resistance. He weakly fought against the restraint holding his right arm against his abdomen, sending a sharp stab of pain through his shoulder, snapping him back to reality.

As he tried to voice his discomfort with a loud "Ow!", his teeth refused to separate, as if they had been super-glued together. It came out more as a mumbled grunt. He vaguely recalled waking earlier (how long had it been?) and experiencing the same feeling of confinement.

Something had happened, but what? He tried to shake the cobwebs out of his drugged brain, tried to piece the puzzle together into some kind of discernible solution, but the sedative was winning once again.

A faint voice penetrated his muffled surroundings, sounding long and drawn out, like echoing whale song deep under water. "Hoouuse, are yooou with meee?" What was Dory doing here? And since when did fish talk?

The urge to sleep was much more appealing than trying to interpret the meaning behind talking fish as he sunk into the depths of tranquility once again. Another sharp pinch to his foot snapped him back to the present. God, why couldn't they just leave him alone?

Heavy eyes pried open long enough to locate the source of aggravation. A blurry figure stood near the foot of the bed, staring back. The face looked vaguely familiar. Squinting a bit, he was able to make out the features; thinning sandy blonde hair, round face, shit-eating grin. And short. Stec. What the hell was he doing-

His thoughts were interrupted as the urge to yawn drew attention back to his mouth. It was as if a vice had been placed around his upper and lower teeth, clamping them shut like a piece of rope wrapped around an alligator's snout.

His mouth was wired shut.

Fuck.

He vaguely recalled the earlier incident in post-op when he woke up and was unable to breathe...or was it really just a simple anxiety attack?

Jaw muscles battled against the metal and rubber bands, sending a shot of electricity through the left side of his face. A trembling hand made it up to his face, only to come in contact with cold terry cloth pressed firmly to his cheek and jaw. Icepack. Well, that explained the cold he had felt earlier.

Probing fingers made their way to his nose and upper lip, noting a glaring absence of any tubes running in or out of his nostrils. Always a good sign, even though his nasal passages felt like they had been Roto Rooter-ed, irritated and raw. Much like he felt right now.

His tongue searched for an exit, probing and pushing against the back of his teeth, still unable to break free. That claustrophobic feeling started to consume him again. Luckily, he still had enough of the sedative running through his system to keep from totally losing it.

Stec took the opportunity to interrupt and directed House's attention back to him and away from his wired jaw.

"Sooo, are you going to freak out on us again?"

House stared back at the doctor who was casually leaning against the bed rail looking like he was posing for this month's cover of _Modern Physician. _

House looked away and realized he was in a private room, out of recovery. "Din't frick ou.." he slurred, inwardly cringing at the thought of losing control in front of other hospital staff members.

"Right. So the panting and thrashing was your way of showing your affection for the nurses."

"Dey love it. Now git deesh off.." motioning towards the mouthful of metal and bands.

"Sure, in about 2-4 weeks." What a comedian.

"No..now." The wires were confining, restricting, creating an odd sense of feeling trapped without any chance of escape.

"No. Sorry. I'm sure if you were one of your own patients, you'd agree with the treatment. It was a pretty nasty fracture and you need-"

"Not my patient. Yer patient. Ficksh it...shcrewsh...plate." He looked down at his right arm nestled inside some kind of navy blue sling. A thicker strap encircled his entire torso, holding the sling securely against his body. He reached up and subconsciously adjusted the sling's strap running over his opposite shoulder.

"What?"

"Shrews...plate." He emphasized, lips pulling away from his teeth as he tried to clarify his speech. God, this sucked. Finally, he made a screwing motion with his pointer finger in the air towards his jaw.

"Oh, screws!" Finally figuring out what House was trying to say.

"Datsh what I shed." He needed a whiteboard or _something. _He sounded like a complete idiot.

"What did you think I was doing in there? A facelift? You need some stability in there for a while. Also, there's a hairline fracture on the right side. I wanted to let that one heal on its own."

"You jus' wanted t'get my mout shut."

"Well, there's that, too. I'll be the hero of the entire hospital." A devious grin swept across his face.

"Ha, ha." House wiggled his fingers towards his chart. "Gimme."

"Since you asked so nicely..." Stec handed him the chart. "You'll find a thorough, well-detailed surgical report in there, unlike your charts I've seen in the clinic."

House scanned the pages with his good eye, the effort causing his ever-growing headache to worsen. Stec was right, it was pretty bad and the wires were needed. Otherwise, his face might end up looking like some bizarre Picasso painting, all odd angles and distorted. He'd be the Quasimodo of Princeton-Plainsboro.

Something shiny caught his eye. He wasn't going to go down without a fight.

He set the chart down in his lap and stared at his blanket covered toes for a few seconds. Without warning, his arm wrapped around his stomach as he leaned forward, feeling the rush of blood to his injured face as his jaw and mouth started to throb. "Gonna beshick..."

"Nice try. I'm not taking them off. Don't think you're the first person to come up with that plan." Stec looked unfazed, arms crossed with suspicion in his eyes.

"Sherioushly, gonnahurl..." He made a gagging motion and leaned to his left in an attempt to feign the need to puke. The wire cutters teased him from a few feet away, just out of his limited reach. Not that he'd be able to do anything once he'd gotten a hold of them. Stec was standing next to the snips, guarding them like some kind of precious stone. To House they were the Crown jewels.

"Do you really need to vomit?" Stec called his bluff. He'd seen this act too many times before. "Because if you do, the NG tube goes back in."

Damn him. Damn the NG tube. Damn his old team, the whole entire hospital, the guy who hit him, Wilson, the pool cue manufacturer...his own big mouth.

He shook his head slightly, not wanting his brain to ooze out of his still-ringing ear.

"I didn't think so. You've got nothing in your stomach and you're on Compazine. Be glad it's not for six weeks or even longer in some cases. I'm trying to give you the least amount of time in the wires."

"Gee, tanksh. What elsh?"

"What else?" House sent a 'duh' expression best he could with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, well not much else. You lost your lower left first molar. Fractured right through the root. Had to remove the root tips."

His tongue probed the empty space in his mouth where his tooth had once been. "Concussion?" The pounding in his head and the dizziness were pretty good indications of having his bell rung majorly.

"Mmhmm. You were out for a bit according to Dr. Wilson. Guy must've had quite a swing."

"H'was a wush."

"A wuss? Your face begs to differ." The doctor made a face as if he'd just eaten something disgusting.

"Dat good, huh? You should shee de udder guy."

"I heard he got away clean."

"Blindshided me. I coulda taken 'm." God, his face was killing him. His jaw ached and his tongue felt like it had tied itself in knots already. Was it possible to sprain a tongue? It was a muscle, after all...

"You g'nna take dees off?"

"Yes, in about 2-4 weeks," he reiterated, answering the same question House had asked earlier.

"C'mon..." Whining didn't seem to help his plea either. He was running out of options.

"I'll be back a little later to check on you and give you your discharge instructions. Or should I just give them to Wilson?" Did everyone think Wilson was his caretaker? Was it really _that _obvious?

"Figger I cn't take care of myshelf?" Right now he wasn't sure if Wilson would even talk to him, let alone give him a hand at home. Things didn't quite go as planned last night... or whenever that was.

House sent his best evil glare Stec's direction before conceding to a life of misery for the next few weeks... if he'd make it that long.

**A/N 2: ****And please please let me know if House's dialogue gets on your nerves. It's not easy to emulate someone with their mouth wired shut. Even though, I must admit, I watched several Youtube videos and read about people's experiences with their communication problems. Just let me know if it gets too annoying.**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

**A/N: I think this is a record for me. Less than two weeks between updates! Now I need to go work on Monster Truck Mayhem... **

**As usual, thanks so much to Magie05 for her input and her grammar expertise. I'd be lost without her. :)**

**Thanks again for all of your kind reviews. Every one of them is appreciated! Oh, and there are a few bad words in this chapter. Just a warning.**

Chapter 8

"Dish shucksh..." House mumbled through clenched teeth as he tried to fit the straw between his bruised and swollen lips. Beef broth, apple juice and some kind of disgusting-looking tea composed his so-called lunch. He hated tea. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the tea looked too much like the beef broth. And who was the comedian who decided to give him a Popsicle?

"And whose fault would that be?" Wilson answered as he busied himself, removing lids from the various containers and launching straws angrily into each as if they were darts being thrown at a dartboard.

_Darts_. House thought as he watched Wilson flicking the straws into the containers. _Should've played darts last night._ Well, then he might've been stabbed in the heart or somewhere else, inflicting a more serious injury than a broken face and dislocated shoulder. But then again he'd probably be dead and wouldn't have to worry about lying here in the hospital trying to drink lunch through a straw while his friend took out his frustrations on innocent liquids.

House glared at him through the corner of his bloodshot left eye as he placed the straw against the wires currently holding his upper and lower jaws together. Gently sucking the tepid brown liquid through the straw, he grimaced as the beef broth filtered through his teeth and into his mouth, flowing over his disappointed taste buds. Ugh. It not only looked like sewer water, but tasted like it, too.

"Maybe you'll think twice about opening that big mouth of yours next time. Oh, wait!" Wilson declared, pointing skyward in mock discovery, "I think you'll have about a month to think about it."

"Heh, vry fnny," he mumbled as he set the cup back down on the tray and picked up the apple juice with his left hand. It might be up to a month dealing with this crap. Why did he have to open his big mouth last night? He might've still had his face intact and possibly all his teeth if he had just turned and walked away. But, for some reason, he couldn't just walk away without getting in the last word.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Wilson had taken on his all-too- familiar 'Captain Self-Righteous' pose. Hands on hips, legs apart, eyebrows furrowed. All that was missing was the giant "S" on his chest.

_Here we go, _thought House as he struggled to reach the TV remote currently located just above his immobilized right shoulder. Time to tune out a certain overbearing, overly dramatic oncologist. If he could just reach the volume...

House's left forearm stretched across his own face as he tried to reach the little white box by his right ear. Almost there...

"No." Wilson grabbed the control and hung the cord over the back of the bed frame, well out of House's reach. "I wanna hear your clever reasoning behind your sudden urge to have your ass kicked by a guy who was twice your size and five times stronger."

House let out a sigh through his teeth. His nose was still congested, probably due to the fact his sinus cavity was filled with blood and packed with about ten feet of gauze.

"Di'nt kick my ash." The words were difficult to enunciate. He needed a whiteboard...but then how could he write? His right hand was strapped against him and rendered basically useless. He really fucked up this time.

Wilson butted in again. "Okay. Yes, your ass may be the only thing still intact, but why couldn't you just walk away like any normal human being?"

"He inshulted my bike," House confessed, recalling how the other guy had looked out the window and pointed towards the vibrant orange machine in the parking lot, making some snide comment about its color and what kind of person drove a crotch rocket.

"After you insulted his!" Wilson retorted. "I believe you called it a, and I quote: piece of shit."

House continued to stare at the apple juice in his left hand, as if the answer was written on the side of the cup. He knew Wilson was just playing the role of his conscience, but he honestly couldn't say why he decided to provoke that guy last night.

"Don' filliketalkin..." which was the truth. His face and jaw were starting to ache ferociously.

"Fine. I'll tell you why." Wilson started pacing back and forth, talking more to the walls than to House himself. House's eyes followed his path. "You're a self-destructive, ungrateful, miserable son of a bitch who can't handle any situation where _you're_ not the one in control. You can't handle the fact that your team took away that control. So you needed to find another outlet, a way to deal with that rejection. You took _back _that control by distracting yourself with pain. Brilliant idea! Let's go down to the local shit-hole bar, drag your best friend along, be a total ass to a Neanderthal and have the crap beaten out of you. Makes total sense to me."

Wilson's rant continued but House averted his eyes and stared at anything but the pacing man in front of him. Everything else in his room became more interesting: the melting popsicle on his tray, the IV tube running into his hand, the little diamond-shaped holes in the thin blanket...or were they hexagons? The holes changed shape into ovals when he tugged slightly on the fabric.

The rant continued. "Now at least you can focus on the physical pain because that's what you wanted. Right? This is your lame excuse to pop more pills, drug yourself into oblivion and conveniently forget all about your other problems."

"Like havin' you aszh a friend," he replied, finally raising his head to meet Wilson's gaze. He saw Wilson's face turn from anger to hurt in less than a second. Then slowly it morphed into a sympathetic frown.

"God, have you even looked in a mirror?" Wilson asked with a tone softer than expected. No matter how hard Wilson tried _not _to care, the empathy still oozed out of the man.

House shook his head slightly, swearing he could feel his brains rattling around his skull. The pain was slowly increasing, his shoulder and head aching furiously.

"Put it this way: it's difficult to look at you."

"'m flattered," he replied as clearly as possible. "Tanksh fer visziting. You cn go now."

"Oh, you're not going to get rid of me that easy. In fact, I'm going to come up with _every _possible way to drive you insane for the next few weeks whether you like it or not. Consider me your in-home babysitter, since it seems you need one. Maybe you'll think twice before having your face rearranged again… especially in front of me."

Wilson looked at him as if he was analyzing a piece of art. "I do have to admit, seeing your face like that reminds me of that guy from Batman. The guy with two faces. One half was normal, the other was deformed and...what was his name again?"

"Two Fashe. Dat was a tough one."

The scrutinizing continued. "You might want to find a razor some time to even that up," Wilson added as he pointed towards House's face.

With a questionable glance, House raised his left hand gently to his battered face. The left cheek felt smooth, rounded, puffy, the skin taught over the damaged tissue. His fingers crept downward and over the line of sutures running parallel with the bottom of his jaw, like a jagged boundary line dividing his chin from his cheek. He noted an odd sense of numbness, unable to feel the light contact over the repaired area.

His hand traveled up towards his cheek, producing a wince as fingers made contact with the bruised and tender zygomatic bone. The swelling was still prominent and extended under his eye, still limiting his vision.

Despite the swelling and bruising, his skin felt as smooth as...well, smoother than he could remember his face feeling since...before puberty.

Fingers wandered over to his right side where they drifted gently over a field of sandpaper; scratchy and rough under his fingertips. They traced above his upper lip, running over the dividing line between rough and smooth. Not only did they only shave half of his face, the half didn't feel close to being even. It was more like one third had been shaved.

"Gimme a mirror."

"Are you all of a sudden concerned about your looks? Do you want to suffer along with me? Trust me, you don't need to see the beauty that is your-"

"Jus git it."

"Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you..." Wilson stepped out into the hall for a few moments, returning with a small hand mirror. He handed it to House who promptly raised it in front of his battered face.

The first thing he saw was the lovely shade of green, blue and purple mottling his puffy, yet clean-shaven left cheek. The bright blue iris of his left eye, what little he could see of it, stood out against a sea of red, the blood vessels in the sclera ruptured from the jarring impact. The swelling extended from under his eye all the way down to the bottom of his jaw and back towards his left ear. He looked like he had just fought a bout in the Ultimate Fighting Championship and lost handily.

Hesitantly, he pulled his lips away from his teeth, revealing the numerous rows of metal and rubber bands covering his clenched teeth, like bars on a jail cell. That's exactly what it felt like, too. Those tiny rubber bands and wires were barely long enough to wrap around his pinky finger and yet they made him feel hopelessly trapped inside himself.

Quickly, he diverted his attention to his original concern. Moving the small mirror to the right, he noted the uneven line between shaved and unshaven. The line seemed to run directly past the left corner of his lip, leaving most of his chin and above his lip dark with stubble.

"Dey could've at leasht made it even..."

"I really don't think that was their biggest concern at the time. I'm guessing they were probably a little more worried about putting your face back together and keeping you alive."

"Don't git sho drmatic. Need lip shtuff." He made a rubbing motion with his finger over the dried, cracked terrain that was once his lips.

Wilson turned around and grabbed the petroleum jelly from the table, offering the opened container to House. "You weren't the one who had to watch his best friend go into respiratory arrest in the ER."

House stuck his finger in the slimy substance and rubbed it over his lips. "You've sheen me almosht die before. Should be ushed to it," he replied, cursing the hospital's budget plan at the same time. Couldn't they afford a measly jar of Carmex or maybe some Chapstick?

Wilson's face fell, looking like a boy who had just dropped his ice cream cone in the dirt, but he quickly recovered and returned the jibe. "Yeah. Thanks for the practice. When you finally do kick the bucket for good, I should be a pro by then so I'll be able to skip the whole mourning part and go out and have a steak dinner in your honor instead. Then maybe I'll go throw a party in your name."

Steak dinner. God, that sounded so good right now. Beef broth and apple juice just didn't cut it. Visions of thick slices of pizza, T-bone steaks, and pork fried rice danced in his head. How was he going to survive on a liquid diet when he was already pining for the simple pleasure of chewing solid food not even six hours into this new personal version of Hell?

_Funny how when you can't have something, you tend to miss it that much more_. No sense in dwelling on it now. It never seemed to help with any other crap in his life he had lost unexpectedly.

"Oh, and speaking of party, the entire hospital is throwing one in honor of the guy who hit you."

House shot his best glare Wilson's direction. "Old joke. You and Shtec should get togedder an' do shtand up comedy." He closed his eyes, squeezing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger, the throb under his fingertips escalating to all out pounding.

"You okay?"

"No. No 'mnot. What'm I on again?" There were still a few cobwebs hanging from the corners of his brain. Stec had mentioned what drugs he had ordered but the names had faded out of his mind like a one-hit-wonder from the eighties.

"Uhhh...Dilaudid..." Wilson glanced at the other bag of IV fluid, "with a Compazine chaser."

No wonder he wasn't feeling his leg much. The morphine derivative was doing its job well even if his jaw and shoulder were still bitching and moaning a bit. It also explained his fuzzy memory. Powerful opiates tended to not only impair your thought processes but also made you not give a damn what was said in the first place.

He ran a tired hand over his face, feeling the mowed and unmowed surfaces of his chin. "Git me a razher," he said, trying to change the subject.

"You're not seriously considering shaving yourself."

"I tink I've been doin it fer about terty-five yearsh now."

"You haven't touched a real razor in at least three years. You're out of practice."

"Yer gonna do it fer me? "'m not lettin you near my jugular wit dat ting."

"You know, you sound like you're from Sweden or something."

"Ha. Yer 'larious. Try talkin wit _yer_ mout wired shut, ashhole," emphasizing the last word as clearly as possible, baring his teeth like some kind of rabid mongrel.

"I'm not stupid enough to have my face bashed in by some-"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Need to shit up." The bed controls were on the side of the bed rail, in a spot that was tough to reach.

Wilson chuckled at House's feeble attempt to enunciate "sit" properly. "I'm not sure if that's even possible. Are you having a problem shitting down? Because, you know, that could get a bit messy." Wilson smiled at House's attempt at a scowl. "This is going to be fun. I get to make fun of_ you_ for a change."

"Shuddup. God, yer sho immature..."

"Me? I believe _you're _the one who holds the distinction of being a proverbial eight year old...who badly needs a shave."

"Oh, Schrew it." After seriously considering his options, the safest bet was to wait until he was alone and had his own razor in his own bathroom, away from prying eyes. So when he did mangle his face even more by shaving left handed, at least it was in the privacy of his own apartment. Besides, he wasn't about to appease Wilson's desire of seeing him clean-shaven. "I'll do it when I git home."

"It's not like you have anything else to do right now. Stec probably won't let you leave until at least later this afternoon...if you're even up to it. I'm sure there's one in the bathroom. I can go take a l-" He turned and started heading for the small bathroom across from his bed.

"I shed ferget it." What difference did it make anyway? It would be like putting a fresh coat of paint on an old dilapidated barn. The outside might look more presentable, but under that shiny exterior it was still falling apart. And who was he trying to impress anyway? The only person who really mattered was already here and hadn't run from his room screaming...yet.

"Let me just take a look." Before House could stop him, Wilson whirled around and opened the door in the far corner. "Maybe there's one in here!" Wilson called from the confines of the tiny bathroom, his voice emitting a slight metallic ring as it echoed off the stainless steel and porcelain fixtures. "Found one!"

_Great_. House rolled his eyes as Wilson emerged, carrying a blue disposable razor. Probably one of those single-edged blades that sliced and diced your face to pieces.

Wilson presented the piece of plastic to him like it was some kind of long lost treasure. The single blade caught the light, the edge already mocking his sensitive skin from three feet away. This only cinched his decision to wait until he got home to use a proper razor...if he could find it.

"I _shed _I din't want it."

"You just said you wanted to sh-"

"Den I changed my mind. 'm not allowed to do dat?" Right now, all he wanted to do was try not to think about the next month. Maybe they could just put him into a coma for a few weeks, help speed up time a bit. But then he hadn't had the best luck with that idea in the past.

House brought his hand up to his left cheek, gently cupping it in a supportive fashion. The slight pressure brought some relief to the pounding bass line playing in his face.

"Aren't you supposed to still be icing that every twenty minutes?" Wilson gestured toward the forgotten icepack folded over the edge of the bed.

"Aren't you shupposhed t'be bugging yer own patientsh?"

"No. It's Sunday. Today's 'Bug My Idiotic Best Friend' day." Wilson made his way around to the left side of the bed and picked up the flimsy blue ice pack and placed it inside the towel resting on the bed rail.

House was about to protest, but Wilson beat him to the punch. "Don't say a word, or so help me, I'll break the other side."

"Too late. Already iszh..."

"You just can't help it, can you?" Wilson rolled up the extra pillow and wedged it against House's face as House lay there, unmoving, sending a sideways glance over the wad of terrycloth pressed against his face. The cold was soothing against his sore jaw. He closed his eyes and reveled in the cool relief it offered.

"I'm gonna let you rest a while and go talk to Stec about when you can go home. Take that pack off after twenty minutes."

He issued a slight nod as he heard soft footsteps head for the door.

"Wilshon..." House muttered almost inaudibly as the sliding glass door slid open.

"Hmm?"

"Tanks..."

"You're welcome...I think. Should I um...have them check you for neuro problems?"

House let the corners of his mouth raise slightly as he cracked one eye open.

"No...jus' like t'shock you shometimeszh...keep you on yer toesh." He watched Wilson answer with a smile of his own.

**A/N: Yes, I know. A bit mushy at the end but House and Wilson do have their sweet moments sometimes. **

**As usual, your feedback and concrit helps me become a better writer. Also, just making sure House's dialogue hasn't driven you up a wall yet. It'll get better as he gets more accustomed to speaking with his mouth closed. **


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: I'm not going to apologize again for being so late. You're probably tired of my excuses. Let's just say I'm never happy with what I write and I have an obsessive need to edit the thing to death. I said I wasn't going to apologize but....Sorry! Hope you enjoy it. I love torturing poor House. **

Chapter 9

Wilson quietly entered House's room, several papers hanging loosely in his hand. He was expecting to find the patient either comatose or wreaking havoc with the staff. There never seemed to be a middle ground when it came to House.

He was right...again.

House was sitting on the edge of his bed, bare feet resting gently on the floor. All of the leads and monitors had been disconnected except for the IV supplying House with fluids and Dilaudid for the pain.

Wilson glanced at the nurse, who looked ready to leap on to the bed and strangle her patient with the discarded EKG leads.

"The _patient _is not cooperating and refuses to follow orders," whined the nurse with the crystal-shattering voice, directed more towards House than Wilson.

"Orderzh? Lasht time I checked, dis wasn't Rykerzh Island," House replied.

"All you had to do was ask if you wanted help getting up," she lectured from the foot of the bed, arms crossed in front of her in annoyance. "You're not supposed to be-"

"If I wnted help, would've ashked fer it," House interrupted. He was staring at his feet, focusing on them as if they'd somehow grow wings and carry him out of the room.

Wilson stepped in, playing the role of 'good doctor' by motioning to the nurse with a casual wave of his hand that he'd take care of the situation. She seemed more than happy to leave House in his care.

Standing near the wall, Wilson placed his hands on his hips and looked on with displeasure at the stubborn jerk in front of him.

House scooted a bit closer to the edge of the mattress, left palm flat against the bed for extra support and balance. There was a cautious deliberation in each motion, taking care not to make any sudden movements. Wilson could tell House was hurting more than he'd ever admit.

"Where'sh m'cane?" The question was barely audible, almost unintelligible with the question directed more towards House's own lap than towards anyone in particular.

"Going somewhere?"

"Maybe..." House kept his focus on the floor. "Hear what I shed or 're you jusht ignoring me?"

"Thought I'd give ignorance a try. Works so well for you," Wilson answered bluntly, "Stec hasn't given you your discharge papers yet, not that it would matter since you never actually follow hospital protocol..." he rambled, more to himself than to House, knowing his lecture would fall on deaf ears.

"Jus' git my cane.._._"

Damn. House's cane was still in the front seat of his car. No way did he think the man would be _that _stubborn to try and leave the hospital so soon, but then again it _was _House_. _"It's still in my car."

This earned a scowl from House. "Does a lot of good dere."

"Sorry! I was a little distracted at the time. Besides, I don't think you're ready for the cane yet. You're probably still a little-"

"Dn't care what you tink. Git me _a _cane. Any cane. Dis is a hoshpital, right? Shure dere's shomethin' around here to aid a cripple. Eeder get me one or'm usin' dis IV shtand." House reached across and wrapped a hand around the metal pole to his right.

"And how do you plan on getting around me?" Wilson asked with an air of superiority. He needed to show House who was boss. It was like training a dog with dominance issues. Maybe he should take House by the neck and pin him to the floor like Cesar Milan would do. _James Wilson: The House Whisperer. _

No. That would probably only piss him off even more. At least House couldn't bite him right now.

House scoffed and started to pull the IV stand closer to his left.

"Just wait a minute, will you?" Wilson raised his hands in surrender and stepped in front of House, who was poised on the edge of the bed, ready to make a mad dash for it.

Wilson heard a strange clicking noise escape from House's mouth. His tongue had made a loud smacking noise against the roof of his mouth when he had swallowed. A bit of empathy washed over him as he looked at the miserable figure hunched over, one elbow resting on his good knee, forehead resting on his pointer finger and thumb. He looked like a wounded version of 'The Thinker'.

Yes, House was an idiot. Yes, he had provoked the guy. But even _he _didn't deserve to have his face bashed in because some idiot didn't like what he had said.

This had happened numerous times before. House pushing and pushing until he'd send even the most reserved person over the edge. The end result usually involved a bloody lip, a bruised cheek or a sore groin. And, in the most extreme, he had ended up with a few extra holes in his body thanks to a revengeful lunatic with a gun. But House never learned. He was as stubborn as a four year old refusing to eat his vegetables.

"You do realize you're still wearing a hospital gown...or did you plan on making a mad dash through the halls in hopes that no one would notice a patient limping with a cane, an arm in a sling and a smashed face?"

House raised his eyebrows, "Tink it'll work?"

"Sorry to break it to you but you're a little...conspicuous right now, and I doubt you'd be able to outrun the security guards."

"We have shecurty guardsh? Could've fooled me."

"House, you need to-"

"Y'don't know what I need!" Wilson was taken aback by House's unexpected outburst. "What I _need _is t'get dese damn tingsh outta my mout!" Spit shot through the wires and bands as House bared his teeth. The snarling dog had returned. "Where'sh da wire cuttersh?"

"Those are for emergencies only and you know it." Wilson tried to use his calming oncologist voice. "Try to take a deep breath-"

"Cut da crap. Dis _is_ an emerg'ncy. Need ta...dese tings...jus'...get me outta here."

Wilson quickly stuck his head out of the door and appointed a nearby nurse to search for a cane.

"Hang on. She'll be right back. You can't take off the wires, House. You know that. Your jaw needs to heal and I'm sure you don't want to be in those things any longer than necessary. If you do it, you'll just set your recovery back." He placed a firm hand on House's shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. "You'll get through this. Stec said it'll get easier and it will."

"Fuck Shtec." House muttered, regaining some control of his emotions as muscles visibly relaxed under Wilson's grip. He was slightly taken aback that House hadn't tried to shake off his hand; instead he seemed to almost accept the placating gesture.

They were saved from further conversation as the nurse hustled through the door, holding a shiny silver quad cane.

Wilson thanked the nurse, quickly adjusted the height and placed the cane on the floor to House's left, taking into account the right arm being held prisoner in the navy blue sling strapped securely to his midsection.

House grasped the cane firmly in his left hand before motioning toward the IV with a nod of his head. "Take dish out. Don't need to be dragging it around wit me, too." he said, then sent a quick glance at the cane in his left hand and the sling, "no more handsh available."

Wilson quickly shut off the infusion pump and disengaged the line from the top of House's hand with a quick twist and capped off the cannula . House looked at him, an eyebrow raised in question.

"I'm leaving in the IV until you're officially discharged," Wilson answered, "and don't argue with me."

"Like dat would shtop me." House sat for another few seconds before conceding to Wilson's logic. "Fine...w'tever..." He levered himself up, body moving slowly like an aging knight, joints rusty and stiff.

House stood, bare feet glued to the floor, eyes blinking rapidly as his body adjusted to the cane's position on his left side. He looked as if he'd just gotten off El Toro at Jackson Six Flags. He was leaning to the left, arm trembling with the effort of holding up his battered body. A slight stumble to the left gained enough attention for Wilson to intervene.

Grabbing House's upper arm, his eyes asked the question House hated more than anything else.

"Dizzy..." House mumbled, eyes squeezed shut and opened again, those blue irises vacant and unfocused.

"Hmmm, let's see. Could have something to do with the jaw surgery effecting your ear and messing with your balance, the Grade _Three _concussion you received, the Dilaudid still in your system, or the fact that you've been lying in bed for over twenty-four hours might have something to do with it."

"Tought I wasz da diagnoshtic exshpert."

"No, you're the idiotic patient trying to do too much too soon."

"Bite me."

"At least I _can _bite."

"Datsh jus' mean. Gotta go now." House's attempt to storm out of his hospital room ended up being more of a lopsided shuffle as he made his way into the hallway, cane clunking with each unsteady step.

"You're an idiot. You're going to end up flat on your face," Wilson called after him, trying to be courteous and giving House the space he obviously needed.

"Don't wait up fer me, dad."

Wilson stayed behind and stared after his friend, wondering what in the hell went through that stubborn ass's head.

------------------------------------------

House slowly made his way to the fourth floor, somehow staying vertical throughout what felt like a twenty mile hike to the safe haven of his darkened office.

Stopping in front of the door, he stared at the letters of his name before summoning up the strength to pull it open. All he wanted to do was collapse into his lounge chair and let gravity take over. Between the pain gnawing at his thigh, the throbbing in his jaw and shoulder, and the general soreness encompassing his body, the soft contoured cushions were becoming more attractive by the second.

Looking down at the sling supporting his injured shoulder, he realized the simple act of opening a door had gotten _that _much more complicated. As if it wasn't already a juggling act with a bum leg and a cane.

Setting the quad cane down on its four spindly legs, he shifted his weight to the left leg before executing his well thought out plan. Luckily, it worked better than expected as he threw open the door with his left hand and placed his left hip against the metal frame, acting as a door stop.

Carefully, he brought his left arm across his hunched body, grabbed the cane and shuffled clumsily inside, the door bumping him in the ass before closing softly. He idly wondered if he had just provided some mindless entertainment for any occupants in the hall who might have witnessed his circus act.

Grabbing the cane and regaining his balance, he took a few short, lopsided steps to the chair and collapsed with a heavy sigh. The familiar surroundings had already calmed his nerves considerably. Here in his office he felt at least some sense of control. The blinds had been drawn, leaving the room bathed in soft tones of brown and orange. He wasn't under constant scrutiny by every nurse on the second floor who found it necessary to take his vitals every five minutes or monitor every fluid entering and exiting his body.

If someone asked him one more time how he was feeling, he'd...well, he didn't know what he'd do since he could barely take a piss without falling over. And the worst part was he had lost one of his most potent weapons...his mouth. It was a struggle to send a sharp retort when the words came out slurred and garbled, making him sound like some bad Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonator. He made a note to deal with the nurses later, after his face healed and he could supply a response suited to his rep.

He closed his eyes and reveled in the peace and quiet, enjoying the absence of beeping monitors, coddling nurses, the antiseptic smell and ...that overwhelming feeling of confinement that had started to consume him.

The pain was still registering about a five but the edginess had subsided to the point that he didn't feel like taking a pair of pliers to his mouth and start ripping each wire out one by one. Now, in the relative comfort of his own office, that gnawing urge receded enough to tolerable levels.

What he was experiencing was so difficult to explain to someone who hadn't been through it. An overwhelming feeling of restriction wrapped its tendrils around him like a python, squeezing every ounce of breath out of him.

He was a caged tiger, agitated and stir-crazy. Endlessly pacing, looking for an escape but never finding one.

His mind wandered to the future, a place he rarely visited and, in fact, would prefer to avoid if that was even a possibility. It was pointless to worry about what the future held for him. Why dwell on the fact that all he had to look forward to was more pain, more pills and less hair? Already he spent enough time worrying about waking up the next morning and looking in the mirror to see the first signs of liver failure staring back at him through yellow tinged eyes. The future looked about as bright as his darkened office at the moment.

The past was no better. It was the root of all that was crappy in his life. There was no point to keep saying "Shoulda, coulda, woulda." No way to change what had already happened. No reason to think about it any more than he had to, even though he was reminded of the past every morning he awoke to the relentless torment inflicted by the damaged muscles and nerves. All it did was dredge up memories of a turbulent childhood, reckless college years clouded in a drug and alcohol-induced fog, a failed relationship and an event that has caused him nothing but pain and aggravation.

A chill ran up his spine, goose bumps breaking out on exposed arms and legs. The flimsy hospital gown offered nothing in the warmth department. No way was he getting up now to find a blanket. He had finally gotten somewhat comfortable for the first time in two days.

Instead, he pulled the gown down around his thighs with a firm tug, cursing his tall stature as the material barely reached his knees. He slid his left arm inside the sling, joining the other inside the makeshift cocoon, letting the warmth permeate his icy skin.

Out of habit, his tongue pushed against the back of his teeth, yearning to run over his dry, cracked lips. Funny how much you can miss the simple act of running your tongue over your own lips until you _can't_. A mental note was made to keep the lip balm (along with his Vicodin) with him at all times until the damn wires were removed.

Closing his eyes, he let himself relax and drift off to sleep, arms tucked tightly inside the sling. He resembled a mental patient clad in a straightjacket, huddled in the corner of some padded room. Luckily, he was oblivious to the spectator watching over him from behind the glass partition.

------------------------------------------

A sharp twinge from his thigh jolted House back to reality. Unaware of how long he'd been asleep, he pulled his left hand out of the comfort of the sling, only to feel the slight resistance of soft cotton against his bare arm.

His fuzzy mind tried to piece together the events before passing out on the chair, unable to recall any visitors. Someone must have come in while he was asleep and covered him up. He wasn't sure whether to be grateful or pissed off about the intrusion. The list was short for possible suspects: Cuddy or Wilson. He had a pretty good idea who it had been.

Then the shoulder sent an unpleasant reminder that the intravenous pain meds that had kept the edge off since he was admitted had long since left his system. Past and present injuries screamed for attention as he shifted positions, feeling each bump and bruise from his run-in with Hank Aaron. According to his internal pain scale, it had to have been about an hour since his escape.

Out of habit, he glanced down to check his watch but instead saw his name and birthdate on the hospital bracelet still encircling his wrist. Damn, his watch was with the rest of his belongings back on the second floor, and the only clock in the office was in the conference room.

He squinted towards the window behind his desk, gauging time the old-fashioned way. The sun was shining through the blinds at a relatively high angle: mid afternoon. If it was later, Wilson would surely had bugged him by now. He probably would have come in here and shaken him awake like those paranoid parents afraid their peacefully sleeping newborn had died from SIDS.

He ran his tongue behind his teeth where the fuzz was already starting to grow, covering each tooth in a thick layer of plaque. He swore it felt like his teeth were wearing socks. Visions of bacteria and microbes growing and multiplying in his mouth flashed in front of his eyes, spreading their way across the unreachable surfaces of enamel hidden behind the bands and wires.

Another jolt from the short-circuiting nerves rearranged his priorities. Pain relief now, oral hygiene later.

His leg was not only sending its usual constant buzzing and burning; there was a new, deeper ache felt within the remaining muscles. Definitely some bruising from the fall. Great. And his pain relief was hanging from an IV pole in another room two stories down.

There had to be some Vicodin in his desk, or he could find his secret stash. And then there was always the secret secret stash...

Pushing himself into a seated position, he wedged his left leg under his right to help lower it to the floor. With a pained grunt, his foot made contact with the carpet. Grabbing the cane parked to his left, he shakily stood with a grunt, the blanket sliding off his lap into a pile on the ottoman.

For once, he was grateful for the extra stability provided by the four-legged cane as the room spun and dipped in front of him, otherwise he was pretty sure he would have ended up kissing the floor...again.

Three wobbly steps later, he plopped into the chair at his desk and started searching drawers for the elusive orange bottle. Fingers shuffled through papers and charts until they wrapped around the plastic cylinder: Pay dirt. With some difficulty, he managed to open the bottle left-handed and spill the contents onto his desk.

Picking up one of the oblong pills, he contemplated the best way to get the pain reliever into his system. Maybe he could pummel the shit out of it with his mortar and pestle, add it to water and drink it. Or maybe stick with the faster delivery system: snort it . But then his sinuses were still full of various fluids, snot and possibly a hundred feet of gauze wedged in there as well. Besides, his sinuses burned enough already. No sense in adding fuel to the fire.

Sticking the tip of his tongue into the space where his molar had once been and had an idea. With the back of his pointer finger, he pulled his cheek gently out of the way and slipped the oblong pill through it sideways. Like feeding coins into a vending machine.

The chalky bitter tasting drug landed on his tongue. He tipped his head back, using gravity to his advantage but the pill adhered to the surface of his tongue like Velco, refusing to let go.

Another jerk of his head and the pill was almost down. One more-

Suddenly, a loud bang from the door and a "What the hell are you doing?" echoed through the office.

Startled by the noise, House's head shot up. The pill lodged in the back of his throat, spurring a coughing fit. Tears welled up in his eyes as he wheezed and sputtered through clenched teeth. He was going to die by choking on pain meds.

Death by Vicodin. How apropos.

The sound of a door opening again alerted him to the fact that Wilson was doing _something,_ even if that something involved running away from a potential murder scene to avoid being implicated.

Throat on fire, House tilted his head over the back of the chair, willing the caplet to continue its journey into his stomach where it would be much more beneficial to him than burning a hole in his throat or blocking his airway.

"Drink this," he heard from above. Somehow he must have missed the door opening again during his own attempt to breathe.

He opened his watering eyes to stare at the blurry glass of water hovering in front of him. Hungrily, he snatched the glass and sucked as much water through his teeth as possible, droplets landing on his chin and neck. Little streams cascaded down his chest into his gown, absorbed quickly by the thin material.

The fire in his throat abated when the pill was swept up by the raging river and finished its journey to his stomach.

The coughing fit was brought under control within a minute but left him breathing heavily through a congested nose, sounding like an agitated bull. He slammed the cup on his desk with conviction as he melted back into his chair, savoring the flow of oxygen once again.

"Better?"

"You tryin t'kill me?" House wheezed, wiping a free hand over his face. "Don't sneak up 'n me like dat."

"Next time I'll send out a bulletin before entering your office." Wilson picked up the empty glass and took it back to the other room for a refill. "Did you really do what I think you just did?" he called from the conference room.

"Depends. What'd you tink I was doin?" While Wilson had his back to him, he clumsily hop-skipped back into his lounge chair, using the desk for support.

Wilson returned with a fresh glass of water and glanced at the white oblong pills scattered across the desk's surface. "You know, that's probably not the smartest way to take your pain meds, what with the risk of choking and all."

"Wouldn't 've choked if you hadn't barged in an' shcared da crap outta me."

"You know, it would be a lot easier if you would stick around and actually _stay _in your room for once instead of taking a tour of the hospital. You could've gotten the liquid Vicodin script Stec had filled for you."

House scrunched up his face in disgust. "Ever tashte dat shtuff? Like Gummi Bears gone bad."

"So you'd rather choke on those horse pills instead. Makes sense, considering it's _you _we're talking about."

"Makesh each doshe a new adventure."

"Not really my kind of excitement. You want adventure? How about going down and talking to the police? They stopped by your room and wanted to get a statement from you. But guess what? You weren't there. So I had to go on a wild House hunt."

"Dey talk to you?"

Wilson nodded. "I told them what I saw, which wasn't much. Basically all I caught was the part where you fell on your face."

"Technic'ly m' head," House corrected, rubbing the lump above his right ear. "Could've lied fer me. Told 'em I was attacked in shome dark alley by ten of 'em."

"Nice try. Nope. I lied to the cops once before. Didn't work out so well if you recall. You'll have to talk to them. Tell them what happened. In fact, they're still downstairs. Why don't you go say hi? I'm sure if they looked at your face, you'd at least earn a few sympathy points."

"Doesz it work fer you?"

"Does what work?"

"Da sympathy."

"No. You've already used up your yearly quota of sympathy points with me."

"'m crushed," House replied before continuing,"I hate copsh. Dey're ashes."

"Not all of them. Only the ones you tend to piss off, which...okay, maybe that is all of them... but you still need to tell them your side of the story. Maybe they can find the guy and charge him with assault."

"Not int'reshted."

"What do you mean? You're just gonna let the guy get aw-"

"Here'sh what'll happen. I'll tell my shide. Tell dem how I was blindshided. How he hit a defenshless cripple. Smashed my fashe. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Dey'll talk to the udder witnesshesh, tell 'em how I provoked 'em. Ashked fer it." God, his face was sore and the muscles were tiring from overuse.

"If verbal provocation was grounds for hitting someone, you'd be assaulted on a weekly basis." Wilson pointed out, taking a seat on the edge of House's desk.

"Good point. But really, what'sh in it fer me beshides court datesh and dealing wit idiot copsh?"

"How about this. We'll make a deal. Here's your 'get out of the hospital free' card from Stec." Wilson held up the paper and waved it back and forth in midair. "Okay, well, not exactly free. I can't imagine what your insurance premiums must be...if you're even still covered."

"Ha. Sho, what'sh da deal?"

"You go talk to the cops and I'll think about getting you out of here and taking you home."

"You'll _tink _about it? Jus' give it ta me." House leaned forward and snatched the paper out of Wilson's unsuspecting hand.

House squinted at the small print in front of him, moving the paper closer and then farther away, trying to bring the letters into focus. No luck. He didn't remember his eyesight being _this _bad before.

Wilson was staring him down, he could feel it. So, he played along and improvised.

"Where do I shine?"

"Sign?"

"Datsh what I shed. Shine. Now git me a pen and shtop makin fun of me."

He caught Wilson's confused look out of the corner of his right eye. "House, this is a list of things you need and types of food you can eat. I thought for sure I'd at least get some smart-ass response to the baby food listed on there. And I'm not making fun of you. I still have plenty of time for that later. You couldn't read it?"

"Musht've mished dat part. Jus' shkimmed it."

"Right." Wilson approached House and whipped out his pen light in one fluid motion. Did the man go anywhere without that damn thing? "Any dizziness? Vertigo? Double vision? Headaches?" he asked as he peeled open House's right eyelid.

"Yer giving me one right now," House snapped, knocking the obtrusive hand away. "I was hit in da head and broke my fashe. Of coursh dere'll be shide effectsh. You shed sho yerself. What'd you exshpect?" As if on cue, he rubbed his forehead, a dull ache materializing behind his eyes.

After a slight pause, House realized the best way to get Wilson off his back was to just answer the damn question. "Dere's some blurrinesh in da left eye. Might have shometing t'do wit my fashe bein uszed as a piñata."

Wilson seemed satisfied with House's answer and called off his attack. "Fine. But if there's any-"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll call Homeland Shecurity. Dey'll be right on it." House scanned the immediate area around him. "And shinsh yer here, make yershelf usheful and help me find my clothes."

"I didn't know you lost them."

"My gym bag. Shpare shirt an' pantsh. Tink I'm wearin' dish home?" House pulled on the front of the gown for effect.

Wilson joined in the search, looking in the areas out of House's immediate vicinity: behind the desk, under the table by the window, the far corners of the room.

"Is this it?" House turned to see Wilson holding the stuffed black nylon bag.

"No. Acsh'ly I keep a half dozen or so in here. Keep lookin'."

"You'll have to settle for this one." Wilson unzipped the bag and tossed it on House's lap, where he rummaged through the contents and pulled out the items one handed: T-shirt, pair of loose fitting cotton pants, socks, even a pair of boxer briefs.

House skeptically stared at the T-shirt, knowing full well he was never going to manipulate his shoulder through that tight sleeve. Instead, he reached for the pants and sat back on the ottoman, realizing he had another dilemma; trying to figure out how to get dressed on his own...again. Now it was going to be _that _much more complicated for a while.

Wilson was standing next to House's desk like a tag team wrestler waiting at the edge of the ring.

The tag was made when, after a minute of contorting himself into positions fit for a yoga class, House mumbled four little words that rarely escaped his mouth. "A little help here...?"

Wilson stared dumbfounded for a moment, like House had just spoken some foreign language. A moment later though he jumped into action.

Wilson grappled with the pants, worked them over the dull grey hospital issue socks and slid them up to House's knees while House supported his right leg with his left hand. When he reached mid-thigh, House placed a hand in his path, holding the bottom of the gown down at the same time. When the pants reached mid-thigh, House placed a hand in its path, holding the bottom of his gown down at the same time.

"Uh, got it from here..." House muttered, meeting Wilson's eyes as his hand slid from his leg to Wilson's wrist.

"Are you wearing underwear?"

"Ya' really wanna know?"

"No." Wilson backed off without further question, finding interest in the bizarre objects lining House's desk.

A slight hiss escaped when House moved his right leg. He caught Wilson's eyes lingering on the mottled purple and green line across the top of his thigh. Quickly, he pulled the gown over the ugly scar and bruising. "No peakin' or I'll have ta charge you fer da show."

House fumbled one-handed with the pants until they were over his hips, grateful for the elastic waistband. The sharp twinges from his bruised thigh finally began to subside, the effects of the nearly-choked-on Vicodin kicking in.

Picking up the black T-shirt, he studied it, wondering how in the hell he was going to coax the tight fitting sleeves over his bum shoulder. Wasn't going to happen. Then he looked at Wilson, eyeing his striped button down shirt in particular.

"Need yer shirt."

"I'm not giving you my shirt."

"I know ya have a shpare. Yer too anal _not _to have a back up. I'm sure y' keep a whole wardrobe in yer offish."

"I like to be prepared. And if I were you, I wouldn't complain about that right now. You'll be lucky if I loan you a pair of socks."

"Don't need yer socksh. Got dese cool free ones wit da traction on da bottom." He wiggled his toes for effect. "You and I bote know you'll give me da shirt becaush y'want me to talk to da copsh and I want t'get outta here and go home." House started to pick at the wide Velcro strap wrapped around his torso. "It'sh a win-win situation."

"Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone," Wilson warned, pointing a threatening finger at him, "I'll be back in a minute."

Wilson left the room with a purpose in his step, shaking his head slightly. House set to work fighting with the thousands of hooks and loops that refused to stop mating. As soon as he'd peel one section off, the other part would adhere to itself again, creating a crumpled mass of bunched up elastic and Velcro.

Finally, with a frustrated grunt, he pulled the strap apart with one sharp tug. Gently, he maneuvered his arm out of the sling and rested it carefully in his lap, grateful for the lack of audience as his face involuntarily twisted into a grimace. Slowly he sunk back into the chair, cradled his arm against his stomach and waited for Wilson's return.

------------------------------------------------


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Please don't faint. I know it's been less than a month since I updated but I've somehow managed to churn out another chapter.**

**Thanks so much to Magie05 for her amazing beta skills.**

Chapter 10

Wilson pushed open the door as House slowly made his way inside the apartment. He was moving more like a frail ninety-year-old instead of the fortysomething year old he was.

"Fin'lly..." House breathed out as he sat heavily on the leather couch. He had heeded Wilson's wishes and actually talked to the police about what happened, even taking the time to give the officers a brief description of the assailant.

House had kept his remarks to himself, biting his tongue (figuratively) on numerous occasions where he normally would have made some scathing comment in response.

The police said they'd contact him if there were any leads in the case.

"I'll be holdin' m'breath," House had commented when the officers had left the room.

Now, finally in House's apartment, Wilson watched as an exhausted House carefully leaned back and rested his head on the armrest of the couch, closing his eyes.

"You hungry?" Wilson asked nonchalantly, heading into House's kitchen to rummage for _something _he could give House before heading to the store to stock the fridge with food fit for a...well...baby, more or less.

"Is dat shome kinda joke?" House growled from the other room.

"No. A joke would be if I said 'A dyslexic walks into a-"

"Bra," House finished, "Yeah, heard dat one. I've been hungry shince Shaturday." House almost sounded pitiful.

Before opening the fridge, Wilson recalled its measly contents before they had gone out Friday night, but he pulled it open anyway and was still once again

disappointed. No magical fridge fairy had appeared over the weekend to restock it.

He took the list out of his pocket and glanced over it. He could probably make a run to the Super Target about ten minutes away and pick up everything he needed in one stop. There were a few items House may already have, but he didn't get his hopes up.

"You have a blender, right?" Wilson asked, looking for a positive response from the lump on the couch.

"No."

Wilson peeked around the corner to see House hadn't even batted an eye. He was still lying there, one hand massaging his forehead, the other tucked in the sling across his stomach, his feet hanging off the opposite armrest.

"But I remember making margaritas at a couple of poker games when-"

"_Had _a blender. Pasht tense. Rem'mber when yer shtupid dog let my shtereo get shtolen?"

Wilson nodded, waiting for the rest of the story.

"Well, dey took dat too. Along wit my Gameboy and some of my besht porn. Dey knew what dey wanted. Guess dey were gonna play video games, listen to da shtereo and drink piña coladas while watchin shome hot chicks do each udder. Multitashkin at its best."

"I'm sure 'Debbie does Dallas' was on the top of their list when they scoped out your joint." He rummaged through some cabinets, coming up empty handed. There was nothing edible. Scratch that. There was nothing here House could _drink _besides water and expired milk.

Wilson walked back into the living room empty handed only to receive a questioning glare from the end of the couch.

"Where's m'lunch?"

"There's nothing here remotely edible for you right now, unless you'd like to slurp curdled milk through your teeth, which might be fun to watch."

"I'll pass. Don' feel like pickin cottage cheese outa my teet for the resht of da night," House explained, placing his arm over his forehead, the unbuttoned white sleeve of Wilson's shirt hanging loosely over his eyes.

"Unless you want the pickle juice that's been in there for who knows how long," He swore he saw an expiration date on the jar starting with 19 but was afraid to look. But they _were_ pickled so who knew how long they could last? Did they really _need _an expiration date? And why was he suddenly having a philosophic discussion with himself about the longevity of pickles?

He glanced back towards House before filling a glass of water and setting it on the coffee table within House's reach. "Here, drink this. I don't need you getting dehydrated while I'm out."

"Tink I'm gonna evaporate while you're gone? And where're you goin?"

"I need to get to the store. Pick up these items Stec recommended for you."

"Dere better be ishe cream on dat lisht, cuz 'm not livin on pureed fruit an' V8."

"Don't you trust me?" Wilson smiled as he opened the door and left with a backward wave of his hand.

"Never!" House yelled at Wilson's back as the door shut behind him.

-----------------------------------

Wilson fumbled with the key as the grocery bags slid down his forearms, leaving red indentations on his forearms. He swore under his breath as the key fell from his grasp and landed with a slight clink at his feet.

"'ts open!"

House must have heard the racket as several of the bags had thumped against the door during his juggling act. He turned the handle with two fingers and basically fell through the entranceway.

"Dat was grasheful."

"And you were a big help."

"Yeah, 'm in perfect shape t' be luggin twenty pound bags around." House gestured towards his arm and leg with a nod of his head.

"Come here and let's find out. Maybe I could strap them to your back. Make you useful for something besides keeping the couch cushions warm."

House ignored his little jibe as he slowly peeled himself off said couch cushions. "Whadja bring me?"

"All the necessities to survive on a liquid diet."

He reached in and pulled several steaks out of a bag along with the staples for a well-rounded meal: potatoes, vegetables, a bag of salad and other odds and ends.

House eyed the solid sustenance suspiciously. "Plan on makin pureed filet mignon?"

"Nope. That's mine."

House looked at Wilson with disappointment in his eyes, as if Wilson had just stolen his Vicodin.

"What? I'm not allowed to eat? You've got nothing here I'd even think of putting in my mouth and just because _you_ had to be stupid, doesn't mean _I_ have to suffer with you."

"Dats what friends 'r for."

"I draw the line at martyrdom," Wilson answered as he continued to fill the refrigerator. "Wow, I may actually get to eat my entire meal without you stealing half of it. Imagine that," Wilson said, smirking as he continued to unload the rest of the groceries.

House had finally made it fully into the kitchen and was unloading a bag one-handed when he looked at the oblong box sitting inside.

"Da Magic Bullet? Out buyin' sheks toys, Jimmy?"

"Yes. I thought I'd invite a few hookers over tonight. Figured it would be a nice welcome home gift." Wilson helped out and pulled it out of the bag.

"And I tought ya din't care. Nuttin shays welcome home like hot seksh wit kitchen appliances."

"I saw this in the 'As Seen on TV' section. Remember watching that infomercial? We both thought it was pretty cool."

"Prob'ly cuz at da time you were _pretty _drunk, you tought da flowbee would be a great way to save money on haircuts."

"And, as I recall, you agreed with me," Wilson replied, taking the contraption out of the box and spreading out the 'free bonus' attachments on the countertop.

"Wanted t'see yer Dorothy Hamill 'mpression." House had taken a seat on one of the stools and started fishing through the parts.

"Hands off," Wilson ordered, slapping House's hand away. "That's all I need you to do is cut yourself on one of those blades." Wilson took a second to glance up at House's face, taking in the still discolored cheek, the bloodshot eye, the chapped lips...the uneven growth of stubble. "Speaking of blades, you should try to shave that forest on your face. Even it out."

"What is it wit you? It'sh like shome kind of OCD ting. What? My feng shui off? Am I unbalanced?"

"You're always unbalanced. I just don't like having to stare at your unbalanceness all over your face."

"Hey, 'm supposed ta make up da new words 'round here."

Wilson scanned the recipe book included with the blender, eyes narrowed in concentration, those thick eyebrows merging in the middle. "There's some good recipes for smoothies in here. Hmmm...how about a strawberry banana smoothie for dinner?"

"Soundsh yummy," House replied flatly, "Can't ya jus' throw a beef sanwich in dere or sometin?"

"Yeah, pureed beef sandwich, now you're talking." Wilson pulled more items out of the green eco friendly bags.

"Ya did not bring reus'ble bags." There was a long pause before Wilson looked over to see House staring at the six pack of plastic bottles. "You. Did. _Not._ Buy. Ensure." House emphasized each word slowly and clearly.

"The bags stay in my trunk and I didn't buy Ensure. Okay, yes, I did on both accounts." Wilson felt the need to justify his purchase. "It's got the vitamins and minerals you need, even though your body would probably reject it since you've been reprogrammed to run on sugar and caffeine alone."

"An' Vicodin. Balances out da caffeine nicely."

"Hm. Of course." Wilson looked over at House who was still rummaging through the new purchases. "Sounds like you're talking a bit more clearly."

"Eder da swelling's gone down or 'm gettin more used to it."

"It does look less swollen. The talking will get easier. It already has and it's only been a few days."

"Still have to tink about it. It'sh a pain in de ass." He made sure to enunciate ass as clear as possible. You don' know how much dis sucksh."

"So you've told me." Honestly, he never wanted to have to experience what House was going through right now. "Remind me never to piss off anyone wielding a weapon."

"Remind me, too." House took his Natural Ice lip balm out of the front pocket of Wilson's shirt, which he was still wearing. "Da worst part is not bein able ta lick my own lipsh." He ran the waxy stick several times over the cracked surface of his dry lips, then stuck the cylinder back in his pocket. "Tink I could hire Cuddy to do it for me?"

Wilson cringed at the vision House painted in his head and abruptly changed the subject. "So, do you want chocolate or vanilla?" he asked, holding up each bottle of Ensure respectively like a game show host.

"Neder."

"Don't start. Drink this and I'll make you something special for dinner."

"Gee, can' wait. Will I get a shtrawberry or a raspberry shmoothie? Sho many decisions..." He swiped the chocolate Ensure from Wilson's hand and placed it in his right hand peeking out of the sling, using it as a cup holder. Wilson turned around, grabbed one straw out of the package and stuck it in the front pocket of House's shirt. "You'll need that."

House sent him a dirty look and stormed/stumbled off into the living room to pout with his nutritional drink and lip balm.

Wilson busied himself with putting away groceries and assembling The Magic Bullet. What _were _they thinking when they named it?

"Eh! Dis shtuff's warm!" House bellowed from the other room.

"Beggars can't be choosers!"

"You din't jush say dat!"

"I did! Now drink your Ensure, old man!" Wilson ordered as he continued to play with the oddly named appliance, "And don't spill any on my shirt!"

-------------------------------

House pouted through his fruit smoothie as Wilson scurried about the kitchen, finishing the preparation of his own dinner. The smell of pepper and the sound of sizzling meat filled the small apartment, sending his neglected saliva glands into overdrive. His mouth watered for one bite from the delectable slab of beef cooking on the George Foreman grill.

Ten minutes later, Wilson joined House in the living room, carrying a plate covered with food in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. Every food group was represented in a nauseating rainbow of color on his plate. Steak, broccoli, baked sweet potato, whole grain roll. Steam rose gracefully from the hot meal and wafted towards House's nose. He had never been so jealous of another person's meal. Even the broccoli looked delicious right now.

"Dis is cruel an' 'nusual punishment."

"What? I'm not allowed to eat? Why should _I _be punished for _your _stupidity?"

"Guilty by 'ssociation."

"Nice try. I didn't aid and abet in your idiocy. Mmmmmm, smell that?" He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply over his dinner. "Nothing like a perfectly done piece of sirloin." Wilson stabbed a piece of the meat onto his fork and waved it under House's nose tauntingly.

House swore the drool was going to come spilling out of his mouth any second. This was torture in the worst form. Right now he'd take a punch to his bad thigh in exchange for a bite of real food....and this was only the first day home.

It was going to be a long month.

"Not dat hungry..." he lied, taking another slurp of his...whatever concoction Wilson had whipped up for him. It tasted vaguely of strawberry with a hint of banana and possibly some orange juice thrown in there.

They sat together, House sending accusatory sidelong glances at Wilson who was chewing his food like a cow enjoying its cud.

"Shtop it."

"Shtop whut?" Wilson mimicked through a mouthful of potato.

"Chewin like a damn pig."

"'m not. Quit whinin an' drink your dinner."

House reached over and snatched the dinner roll off Wilson's plate, and ground it into the floor with his foot. The pulverized remains clung to the throw rug and House's sock.

"That was mature," Wilson chided, his lips pursed in disgust. "Not like you could have eaten it."

"It's da prinshiple. Don't want you ta get used ta eatin all of yer food."

"That's a waste. There are people starving in Africa, you know."

"In Prinshton too. I want real food."

"Well, guess what? This is what you're getting for the next few weeks so literally suck it up and deal with it," Wilson snapped as he cleaned up the remains of the roll and walked back into the kitchen. He returned, juggling another hot roll between his hands and dropped it on his plate.

"No fair," House whined.

"I didn't know there were rules. Next time I'll check the book on 'how to manage a friend with food envy.'"

House made another grab for the replacement roll but Wilson pulled the plate out of reach and guarded it with his body. "Ah-ah-ah. Mine."

House turned away and took another swig of his tropical nightmare and cringed as a clump of dry powder made its way into his mouth through the spaces between his teeth. He recognized the bitter nutty taste as some kind of protein powder. He had tried that stuff once when he was training for Lacrosse in high school because his friends were all using it. They said it would 'bulk' him up. He deemed it disgusting and stuck to eating real food. How he longed to eat some real food right now right now.

"'m not competing fer Mr. Universh." He wrinkled his nose for affect.

"Hmmm?" Wilson mumbled around some broccoli.

"Dere's protein powder in here. Worried 'bout me losin m' manly physique? "

"You need to get your protein somehow. Unless you want me to puree some tofu."

"God, no. Don' turn me inta one a doze vegan nutjobs. I'll take da powder."

"If you're a good boy, maybe I'll make a chocolate shake for you later." The voice was condescending, patronizing. "Now finish your dinner."

House cast a sidelong glance at Wilson and begrudgingly finished his meal in a cup, making sure to slurp as loud as possible when he reached the bottom of the glass.

---------------------------------

"This isn't going to work. Hold still, will you?"

"It hurtsh!"

"Then let me use the razor. I won't have to push so hard."

They were sitting in the bathroom, House on the small ottoman and Wilson sitting on the closed toilet. Wilson had a hold of House's chin as he worked the electric razor through the dense forest that was House's face. Well, it looked more like a dense forest that had been partially cleared by uncontrolled slash and burns.

He had made a deal with House: let him shave his face to even it out and he'd make a chocolate shake as a reward.

Little did he realize that the pressure of the electric razor would be so uncomfortable on House's broken jaw.

After another hiss from House, Wilson set the electric torture device down and let out a sigh of his own. "Well now I _have _to finish. Your face looks like a map of the world."

"Dis was yer bright idea, Einshtein. Told ya to just leave it. Doesn't bodder me."

"_You _don't have to look at yourself constantly. It's scary. Trust me."

"Den get me a shcarf or sometin. I'll dishguise m'self as a Muslim chick."

"Then you won't get your reward for being a good boy and holding still."

"Dis is blackmail."

"No, it's called compromising. You give a little and I give a little. You should try it some time." Wilson rummaged through the medicine cabinet and found a disposable razor hidden behind the deodorant and Biofreeze. "You know, it's probably not a good idea to have these two items next to each other. What if you grabbed the wrong one by mistake?"

"Ya can't be sherious." He studied Wilson's face. _Oh my god, you are serious. "_Den I'd have icy hot armpitsh an' a dry thigh dat shmells like an arctic breeze."

"Where's the shaving cream? You _do _have shaving cream, right?"

"Shave _gel. _More shelf."

Wilson reached up and grabbed the miniature black and orange can and made a face. "This?" The can was no more than three inches high. "A travel size?"

"Yes. An' if I wanted a lecture on proper grooming and medshin cabinet organiz'tion, I would've called da Queer Eye guys." _Even though I don't need them with you around, _he thought.

"Fine, set your armpits on fire. Ever hear those stories about people brushing their teeth with Preparation H instead of toothpaste?"

"I keep dose sep'rate." _Speaking of... _ House instinctively tried to run his tongue over the outsides of his teeth out of habit, realizing too late that he couldn't gauge how dirty his teeth were by a simple swipe of his tongue. He scraped his fingernail over an exposed part of his tooth and collected a small amount of plaque on the end of his nail. He studied it like a fine diamond.

"That's disgusting."

"Okay, genius. How elsh 'm I shupposed to tell if m'teeth need brushin?"

"If I were you, I'd be brushing and rinsing after every meal regardless of how dirty they felt."

"'m not you...tank god... an I wouldn' call 'em meals."

"Let me finish your face first, then you can brush. Oh, Stec mentioned getting you an electric TB and one of those Water Piks to help clean around the wires. Pretty sure Walgreen's has them."

Wilson _would _know that. "My reg'lar tootbrush won't work?" House replied, "and I c'n shave my own face, tanks."

"Right. Because you'll be the master of steadiness trying to shave with your left hand. Your face not messed up enough for you already? Hold on, let me get the first aid kit."

"Okay, ya have a point. Jus' get it over wit."

---------------

They headed to the sink to keep the mess contained to a smaller area. House leaned his left hip against the it, most of his weight on his left leg. Grasping the sink, he got in a somewhat comfortable position before Wilson got started. Never did he think he'd ever let Wilson touch him like this, let alone with a sharp object. But after looking in the mirror and seeing the road racing course that was his face, he finally agreed. Besides, the promise of a chocolate shake sounded to good.

"Hold still..." Wilson's tongue slipped out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on the task at hand. House felt a pang of jealousy towards the simple gesture.

"Shtay away from m' jugular. Don' wanna bleed out all ov-"

"Stop talking. I'm concentrating here." Wilson's eyes narrowed with determination.

"Din't know it took dat much brain power ta shave."

"Not myself. Ever try to shave another person before?"

"Mmmm, not a face. Dere was dis one girl who got off on-"

"House."

"Y'asked."

Wilson was surprisingly gentle, the razor sliding gracefully over his lathered face with the slightest pressure.

"Now go like this." Wilson opened his mouth and pulled his upper lip taught over his teeth. Obviously he wanted to shave the prickly partial mustache under House's nose.

House looked stone faced at Wilson. "I _can't._"

Wilson gnashed his teeth together and made several faces resembling a monkey on crack before answering, "Oh, yeah. Guess you can't."

"Jus' finish da job. M' leg'sh 'bout ready t'give out." He could feel the muscles in his left leg starting to shake with the effort of holding up most of his weight. The right leg was still too sore to take much of the load and had called it quits a while ago.

Wilson finished up with a few more strokes and seemed pleased with the results, staring back at him with a stupid grin on his face.

"What?" House asked, feeling a bit uncomfortable being stared at like some dirty magazine centerfold.

"Nothing. It's just...it's been so long since I've seen you clean shaven. You look....different. Softer. Less prickly."

Oh god. Just what he needed. There went his tough guy persona, at least for the next few days until the stubble grew back.

"Great. Dere goes m' image."

"Don't worry. I'm sure people will still run the other way when you show your face at work, even with your baby smooth skin."

"Oh, shut up." House released his grip on the sink and snagged his old man cane as he had dubbed it. "Need t'get off m'feet. Feel free ta giggle an' laugh behind m' back."

Wilson's grin radiated like a solar flare from the sun. The heat washed over House, his face glowing red-hot with embarrassment.

House lumbered back into the living room as fast as his unsteady legs could carry him, hoping to avoid any more freaky staring from Wilson. He collapsed back into the comfort of the worn couch and waited for his reward, slowly running the back of his fingers over the unusually smooth skin on his face.

------------------------------------------------------

**A/N: Yes, somehow I'm keeping this friendship only. I'm not ready to do slash but may consider doing a slashy version of this some time in the future (if I ever get enough courage to try it.)**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Sorry about all of the boring introspection in the beginning of this chapter but I felt House would take some time to think about the last few years with his underlings and what had transpired over the last week or so.**

**Also, I apologize for the long wait. I have so much insecurity when it comes to my fics. I've been sitting on this chapter for about a month. Anyway, I finally said "screw it" and posted. Otherwise, I'd never stop playing with it and I really do want to finish this story. I'm guessing maybe two or three more chapters.**

**And another thank you to all the regular readers and reviewers. Your feedback is greatly appreciated! **

Chapter 11

After sucking down his chocolate reward and watching a few hours of mindless television, House had called it a night and verbally shoved Wilson out the door. Of course, Dr. Do-Right didn't voluntarily leave until House had promised to call if he needed anything. Yeah, sure.

He'd jump right on that. All he'd been doing for two hours was trying to get _rid _of the overbearing oncologist to have at least a little time to brood and drown in self pity alone.

He had watched Wilson finally pull away from the curb so slowly, House thought an approaching car was going to end up in the trunk.

Finally alone, he had shuffled his way into the bedroom in an attempt to get some much needed sleep. Between the increased pain in his bruised thigh and the throbbing headache, the comfort of his bed sounded more and more inviting.

Not bothering with the light, he made his way around the bedroom in the darkness, careful not to whack a shin or a toe in the process. That would be all he needed on top of all the other crap he'd dealt with lately.

By the time he eased himself onto the edge of the mattress, his head was pounding out a staccato rhythm with his heartbeat, reverberating between his ears like some high school marching band's drum section. He placed the bottle of Vicodin and his other new best friend, Carmex, on the bed-stand to his right. Carmex. The name almost sounded like a hooker's pseudonym.

Slowly, he rolled onto his back, left hand supporting his thigh, and let out an audible sigh as he sunk into the rumpled sheets, welcoming the release of tension on sore bones and joints.

It was a restless night filled with tossing and turning, winces and groans, as he tried to find some modicum of comfort. If it wasn't his leg, it was his shoulder. If it wasn't his shoulder, it was his jaw. The circle of misery orbited like a pack of wild hyenas, nipping and biting at their surrounded prey.

With a pillow crammed under his right shoulder and one between his knees, he found enough relief to doze fitfully for an hour or so at a time.

After another dose of Vicodin (taken with the water Wilson had conveniently left for him) and more tossing and turning, he had finally given up on real sleep when the sun had started peeking through the curtains at some ridiculously early hour.

Now here he was, sitting on the couch, eyes bleary, trying to interpret the fuzzy words spread across the page of his latest medical journal. He blinked rapidly then squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to clear his vision, but to no avail.

Removing his glasses, he pressed his finger and thumb into the corners of his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out an audible sigh through his teeth.

Maybe the hit to his face from the Barry Bonds wannabe really _had _caused some damage to his eyesight. Or maybe it was just from lack of sleep. God, he was so tired. His eyes felt as if sandpaper had been rubbed over his corneas.

He slid his glasses back on and focused again on the page in front of him. It was time to conduct a little experiment.

Covering his left eye, he started to read the article. _CDC officials said the new data underscore the continued emergence... _No problem. Everything was clear and easy to read.

He repeated the process with the other eye, attempting to focus on the same paragraph he had just read. The words were slightly more blurry but still clear enough to read.

Then he uncovered his eye and tried to read the page normally. The words overlapped and blended together, forming an alphabet soup on the paper.

Crap. Double vision. His suspicions were confirmed.

House removed his glasses and leaned against the back of the couch. He ran a weary hand down his face, the new growth of stubble abrasive under his fingertips.

All the possible causes of diplopia ran through the medical Rolodex in his head and a handful of possible causes popped up.

His razor sharp mind quickly discarded the most unlikely ideas and narrowed it down to a few possibilities. It could be something as simple as some residual swelling around the eye socket, creating pressure against the eye itself. He had looked in the mirror earlier and his face still looked a bit swollen, especially under his eye. The sclera was still red with significant bruising around the lower half of the orbit. Definitely a possibility.

Brain trauma or concussion crossed his mind, but he had checked out neurologically. The CT scan he had received upon admission was clean according to Wilson but he knew better than anyone else that things can change.

It was probably smarter to keep quiet and give it a few more days before mentioning the vision problem to anyone..if at all. Wilson's eyes were already scrutinizing his every move. He really didn't want to be dragged back to the hospital for unnecessary tests while Wilson hovered over him like some Jewish grandmother.

He really wasn't in the mood to deal with Cuddy or the rest of the staff for that matter. Right now he felt vulnerable without his strongest weapon functioning at one hundred percent. And what member of the staff wouldn't _love _to see him now? His mouth muzzled like some kind of rabid dog. Yep. They would have a field day. Best to lay low for a little while longer. Let everything blow over. Besides, it wasn't like he had a patient dying or something. In fact, he didn't _have_ a patient. Come to think of it, he didn't even have a _team. _At least he still had his own office.

Suddenly, his three fellows bullied their way into his subconscious.

Chase, Cameron and Foreman were the first group to survive more than six months under his reign of terror. Over the last three (had it really been that long?) years, the four of them had built a strong foundation based on knowledge and intuition.

That foundation came crumbling down in a matter of days.

It all started when Foreman had taken the marrow from that kid who was trying to save his brother. It was the right thing to do at the time. But following that incident, Foreman had lost his balls somewhere and grew some boobs, essentially turning into Cameron with a tan.

Then things had quickly gone from bad to worse.

He had fired Chase during a heated moment when his patience with the young doctor was already stretched too thin.

To top it all off, Cameron dropped another bomb and handed in her own letter of resignation, thus completing the total destruction of his team.

So, within one week his entire staff had vanished like a squadron of planes over the Bermuda Triangle. Now he was flying solo. No wingmen left to protect his ass from enemy fire.

The last time he had worked alone was...come to think of it, he had really never worked _alone_. He had always either worked _for _some idiot when he was a resident or idiots had worked for him. Even when Cuddy had hired him out of pity, she demanded he have at least one lackey under his supervision, even if said lackey did nothing more than open his mail and make coffee.

If the last three years had taught him anything, it was that he needed a team. Someone to bounce ideas off of. It reminded him of the days when he used to go hit the tennis ball against the backboard for hours. Without that backboard, the game was pointless.

The three of them had proven themselves as worthy backboards.

They had grown and matured into well-rounded doctors who could hold their own in a DDX, not that he'd ever tell them that. Even Cameron seemed to have grown a backbone even if she was still an overstuffed Care Bear.

Maybe they had gotten everything they could out of this job. Maybe he had offered them all he could as a mentor. _Mentor _he scoffed. Maybe more like a dictator.

He continued to stare at the drab ceiling, rubbing his fingertips lightly over his jaw, feeling the slight prickle of new growth. There was still a pronounced numbness along his jawline and lower lip where the alveolar nerve had been damaged.

Those words he had said to Chase earlier last week came back to him. Maybe it really _was _time for a change.

He was shaken out of his reverie by the shrill electronic ring of the phone. It was either Wilson checking up on him, making sure he hadn't freaked out and robbed a hardware store for a pair of wire cutters; or it was Cuddy, disguising her concern by asking trivial questions about his clinic duty hours or some patient exhibiting odd symptoms.

The answering machine picked up and the tinny, nonchalant voice of Wilson came out of the speaker. "Hey, House. Just me. I'm not going to be able to make it there for lunch. Totally swamped with clinic duty. Some kind of flu outbreak. See you tonight if Cuddy will let me escape. Call and leave a message on my voicemail to let me know you're still alive and haven't jumped off a bridge or anything. Bye."

House smiled to himself. The man was unbelievable. Even in the midst of some health crisis, Wilson took the time to call and check on _his _well-being. It was either totally pathetic or sickeningly noble.

A mental note was taken to call Wilson later...much later. It was more fun to make him squirm with worry for as long as possible.

----------------------

House stuck to his word and didn't return Wilson's call until later that afternoon. He was surprised the police hadn't shown up at his door for a wellness check.

"You enjoy giving me an ulcer, don't you?" Wilson asked as he entered House's apartment later that evening.

"Ulsher. Heart attack. Brain 'neurysm. Take yer pick. Dey're all entertainin in deir own unique way."

"Have you eaten anything today? Eating being a relative term here." Wilson made a beeline for the kitchen, House limping after him in hot pursuit, the four pronged cane clumsily next to his left hip, bouncing off the floor in an uncoordinated rhythm. He made it to the kitchen and stared at Wilson with hopeful eyes, silently praying for something resembling real food to appear.

"If I have one more Ensure, 'm gonna develop age spots an' start playin' Bingo," House mumbled, plopping down on the stool in the kitchen while Wilson suspiciously eyed the the row of empty Ensure bottles sitting on the counter.

"Is that all you've had today?"

"'n case ya haven't noticed, got a bit of a problem chewin right now. Pretty sure da local Chinese take out place doesn't offer pureed Moo Goo Gai Pan." Even though it sounded awfully tempting.

"You know, you could put about anything in the food processor. Maybe you should try the egg drop soup? It's got protein and should be pretty easy for you to eat. Maybe even blend it a bit if you need to."

"I was tinkin about trowin in a roast beef san'wich. Maybe some fries."

"If you think that would be appetizing and edible, go for it." Realization flashed across Wilson's face. "Hold on." He jogged back into the living room and disappeared from view. The sound of rustling papers caught House's ear, then before he knew it, Wilson reappeared in the doorway holding some papers in his hand. "Found these on the Internet. Some recipes for people who have their jaws wired shut."

House felt something close to gratitude, even if this was what Wilson lived for. When the hell did he find time to search the internet for recipes? He dismissed the thought and stared questioningly at Wilson. "So, y'got a recipe for puréed pizza?"

"No, but how about a blended beef stew or the puréed chili con carne for dinner?"

Neither sounded very appealing but his stomach was ready to stage a coups if it didn't receive something somewhat resembling food. He picked the beef stew, which sounded safer. The thought of beef, beans, tomatos and spices pureed into a liquid didn't sound very appealing to his already roiling stomach. Too many Ensures were starting to take its toll on his digestive tract. He had probably ingested more fiber in two days than he'd had in a month.

They ate (or drank) their respective meals. The beef flavored stew tasted surprisingly like...stew, except for the lack of any texture. It was almost tolerable except for the pieces of beef and vegetables now lodged in every nook and cranny around his teeth and wires.

Wilson chuckled a bit when he caught a glimpse of the brown, green and orange confetti decorating the front of House's teeth and hardware.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Just looks like you held a parade in your mouth and forgot to sweep up afterward."

House picked at his teeth with a fingernail, ultimately giving up. It was like trying to remove a splinter while wearing mittens.

"Why don't you use the Water Pik I got you? Since, you know, that's what it's actually for."

"Have ya seen my mirror lately? Let's just say I've redec'rated it wit my own biohaz'rdous materials."

Wilson made a deal to clean the mirror so House made sure to use the pulsating water spray on full power and splash as much of the debris on the mirror and surrounding fixtures as possible.

Upon return to the living room, House heard the sound of running water and dishes clinking and clanking in the sink.

He ungracefully plunked back on the couch, already tired from his little adventure to the bathroom and back. The balancing act at the sink took a toll on his left leg, the only available appendage he could use to support his weight while standing there. At least he was able to lean against the sink to help alleviate some of the pressure.

Leaning forward, sling discarded on the coffee table, he rested his forearm lightly on his bad thigh. Slowly he lifted his arm in a gentle arc, hissing through his teeth as the pain shot through his tender shoulder.

Wilson ambled back into the room, sleeves rolled up, hands wrapped in a towel. "Dishes are done. I'm goi- what are you doing?"

"'Da Chicken Dance." Stupid questions deserve stupid answers.

"How does it feel?" Another stupid question.

"Like crap."

"Always one for an accurate description of your pain level." Wilson's voice seemed to roll its eyes. "Don't you start PT in a few days?"

"End of da week. Nice of em ta give me time to acsh'lly, you know, heal first."

"Well, you don't want to end up with a frozen shoulder either." Wilson. The voice of logic.

"Tank you Captain Obvious." House slowly lifted his arm away from his body and flinched when the invisible spike drove deep into his shoulder. "I hate PT..."

Physical therapy brought back miserable memories. The months he'd endured following the infarction were some of the worst in his life. He had survived the first six-week session before deeming it pointless, especially when the slightest force placed on his quads would send him through the ceiling. But the therapist kept pushing and pushing until he was literally screaming in pain. It was the Spanish Inquisition minus the religious zealots.

He was not looking forward to it.

"Just think, the sooner you can use that arm, the sooner you can rebel against conformity and use your cane on the wrong side again. I know how much you love to drive the therapists crazy." Wilson rolled his sleeves back down and gathered up his belongings. "Oh, Cuddy says 'hi' and that she's anxiously awaiting your return."

"'m sure she is...Already mishing m' alluring wit and charm."

"You know Cuddy. Glutton for punishment. Any time frame in mind?"

"Haven't really tought about it." That was a lie. He was already anticipating his return to work. The monotony of staying home would get to him sooner rather than later. Without something to stimulate some brainwave activity, he'd end up peeling the paint off the walls out of sheer boredom. "Prob'ly next week shome time. Owww, dammit..." House stuck his finger in his mouth and ran it over the barbed wire fence surrounding his teeth. His cheek felt like it had been ripped to shreds where the metal was constantly rubbing against the soft tissue.

"What?"

"Damn wires are rubbin m'cheeks raw."

"Don't you have any wax?"

"If I tought I needed it, don't ya tink I woulda taken some?" Besides, it really wasn't on his mind when he was discharged. House's thoughts took him back to his early teens when he had braces and always used to carry a little rope of it around with him. Now he remembered why he hated braces so much.

"I'll stop by Stec's office and pick some up for you."

"Or I could get it Tursday when I go in fer my torture session." House smeared more Carmex over his lips. It was a never-ending cycle. Breathe, lip balm, eat, lip balm, talk, lip balm, Vicodin, lip balm. He never realized how often his tongue moistened his lips before it ended up trapped behind clenched teeth.

"Or I could drop it off tomorrow."

"Or you could get a life an stop worryin 'bout me."

"I'm not worried...I'm just... concerned. Why is that so hard for you to accept?"

"Hard fer me ta unnerstand what yer gettin outtta dis."

"Not everything is about what personal gain I receive. I would've left a long time ago if that were the case."

"Wow. Way ta beat around da bush. Shtill doesn't esplain why you've become Florence Night'ngale."

"How about enjoying the satisfaction of helping a friend who, even though he's a total jerk and could care less if no one else existed on this planet, is having a bit of a rough time right now?"

"I tink I'm gonna cry," House replied, wiping a fake tear for added drama.

"You're an ass."

"And yet y'keep comin back. What does dat say about you?"

The question went unanswered.

-------------------------------

Wilson sat at his desk, trying to keep busy while waiting for House to return from physical therapy. It had been a bit of a battle to convince House to go, but common sense won out and House hitched a ride with Wilson in the morning. Afraid House might decide to make an escape, Wilson had followed him to orthopedics and spied through the partially open blinds like some kind of pre-pubescent Peeping Tom. When he saw the therapist escort a rather reluctant patient to the back room, Wilson walked away feeling a bit guilty. Why did it feel like he had sent his dog to get neutered? He hoped House returned more or less in one piece...or at least with all of his pieces still attached.

His hopes were dashed when he saw House leaning against his doorway looking haggard and drawn, like a wrung out dishrag. The lines of pain were etched deep in his weary face.

Without raising his head, Wilson stealthily watched House make his way over to the couch and collapse heavily onto the leather cushions. Vacant eyes stared straight ahead, unfocused and distant, almost...catatonic.

He was afraid to ask the inevitable question, figured this was as safe a time as any. "How'd PT go?" he asked in his best gag-worthy cheery voice, complete with the fake smile.

All that gained him was a sideways glance and a deep sigh through flared nostrils.

Wilson lifted his head and studied his friend. "Yoooou...okaay?"

"Dey're all sadists," House finally replied while reaching into his pocket with his left hand and popping open the amber bottle with his thumb. The lid bounced to the floor and rolled between House's feet and under the couch.

"C'mon. It couldn't have been _that_ bad."

"Not at all if yer into S&M."

Ignoring the lost lid, he dug out a pill and stuck it through the empty space where his tooth had been and threw his head back, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. Eyes closed, House rested his head over the back of the couch, obviously waiting for the drugs to kick in.

"You know, you really should have some water with that. Do you want a repeat performance from the other day?"

"Yer not my mom, and dis time ya can't shneak up an' shcare da hell outta me again 'cuz I already know yer here. Beshides, takes too long to git up, go all da way to my office, get out a glass, fill it with water and bring it back in here. Kinda need pain r'lief now." House's words came out more garbled than normal...normal being a relative term this last week.

"Well, when you put it that way..." Wilson replied with a touch of sarcasm. House made it sound like some kind of undercover SEAL operation. He dismissed House's lethargy to just being worn out from the PT and decided to let him be.

Wilson kept quiet and continued his paperwork until the soft rumble of snoring interrupted his focus. House was fast asleep, left hand hugging the sling supporting his right arm, his head resting in the crook between the armrest and back of the couch.

Wilson couldn't help but smile at the image in front of him. House really was a child. An ADHD child with OCD and drug dependency, but a child nonetheless.

He returned to his computer, subconsciously tapping the keys with a little less force than usual.

------------------------------------------

**A/N: Feel free to point out any glaring mistakes I might have made. This chapter has been edited to death since getting it back from my wonderful beta, Magie05. All mistakes are mine.**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** I'm going to make this a permanent author's note. Sorry about the delay. Real life...blah blah blah. This chapter is shorter than usual but I felt I had to give you something. The boys are getting a little irritable this chapter. Can you blame them?

A touch of hurt!Wilson this chapter for my good friend, Lhoma. :)

Chapter 12

House rubbed his neck and rolled his head around in an attempt to untie the knot currently taking up residence in the base of his skull. "Ya could've gotten me a pillow or someting." Going into work had been a bad idea. Between the smart ass comments from other staff members about his mouth and the torture by Torquemada himself, the day had gone pretty lousy. Then to top it off, he had fallen asleep on Wilson's uncomfortable couch.

"And disturb your beauty sleep?" Wilson asked, keeping his eyes on the road as he made his way through rush hour traffic. "By the way, that beauty sleep thing. I don't think it's working."

He ignored Wilson's remark and continued. "Now m'necks killin me too."

'You also drooled on yourself," Wilson added, looking left, right, then left again before proceeding through a green light.

"'Cause you bored me into a cat'tonic state." The iron grip on his neck was starting to loosen up a bit, unlike Wilson's grip on the steering wheel.

"Glad my conversation has been so enlightening for you." There was a pause and he took that moment to chance a quick glance at Wilson. He was slightly surprised to catch a glimpse of Wilson's own brown eyes flashing quick glances his direction while still focusing on the road in front of him.

It was a game of 'I'm concerned about you but am trying not to show it.' Wilson played this game so often, the playing cards were starting to wear out.

House braced himself for that inevitable question to slip from Wilson's lips.

"How have you been sleeping?" Okay, not the question he was expecting but close enough.

Good thing he had already prepared several witty retorts from his repertoire to answer such a question. "Usually on my back wit some hooker draped over-"

"You know what I mean. Have you gotten enough sleep lately? You look...I don't know...tired."

"Ya tink?" He could feel the anger roiling inside of him, the heat from pent up frustration traveling through his chest into his already pounding head. "You try sleepin' wit your mout wired shut, feeling like yer fucking suff'cating. Droolin all over yerself like a helpless baby. Den dere's da shoulder dat hurts every time you shift positions and a damn leg dat is more pissed off dan usual and lets you know every time you flex one goddamn muscle. See how well _you_ sleep! And, t' top it all off, you have to take a piss at least once a night from all da damn liquid you've been drinking let alone dream of ac'shully having a normal bowel movement!"

Maybe that last part didn't need to be mentioned, but Wilson asked. It was _his _fucking fault for bringing it up.

"Sorry I asked..."

"Should be..." House muttered between huffs, nostrils flaring as he breathed heavily through his nose. He was an angry bull and Wilson just waved the red cape in front of his nose. What did he expect? _Oh, life is just a bowl of cherries! and I must have gotten all of the rotten ones stuck to the bottom. But hey,if life serves you lemons, make lemonade! _So many useless idioms to choose from. And he'd received enough lemons to start his own fucking lemonade stand.

He was tired and sore and all he wanted to do was take a scalding hot shower, pop a Vicodin and crash on the couch, not necessarily in that order. He wasn't in the mood for meaningless conversation.

Turning his gaze out the window, a sudden wave of nausea washed over him, his head spinning in unison with the swirling scenery passing by in a blur of colors. He closed his eyes tightly and fought back the urge to vomit. Visions of acidic brownish liquid spurting between his teeth like miniature fountains flashed through his mind as he pictured what the inside of Wilson's car would look, and worse yet, smell like afterward. For a brief second he almost wished he could see the results but swallowed the excessive saliva accumulating in his mouth along with the burning desire to redecorate Wilson's car right now.

After a few seconds, the wave passed, but he kept his eyes closed as a precautionary measure.

Wilson quickly changed the subject, rattling on about some case or clinic patient or something. Luckily, most of the one-sided conversation was drowned out by the blood rushing in his own ears and his inner voice arguing with itself about whether or not he should throw up all over Wilson's fancy interior. He knew if he did puke, Wilson would_ never_ leave.

"I'm waiting for one of your brilliant retorts," Wilson continued to stare in anticipation, glancing back and forth between him and the road. "Well, aren't you going to make some snide comment or bad joke about orifices now?"

House swallowed thickly and drew in a few deep breaths through his nose. The nausea abated and when he had regained control of his stomach contents, he muttered a "nope" and continued to pretend to stare out the window, averting his closed eyes from Wilson's view.

----------------------

For Wilson, the trip home had been...odd to say the least. House had finally blown his top which honestly didn't surprise him that much. The guy had been through hell lately. It really didn't happen that often. Sure he'd get pissed off about a botched lab result or would sulk on occasion about too much clinic duty or no cable, but rarely did he blow his top like that. And since when did House pass on making fun of some idiotic clinic patient sticking things where they don't belong?

He let it go, considering House had just finished a brutal session of PT and had a tendency to shut out the rest of the world when he was sore or hurting more than usual. House was a wild animal caught in a trap, snarling and lashing out at anyone trying to help.

They entered the apartment and House sank into the couch with a sigh, looking a little worse for wear.

Wilson left him alone and headed for the kitchen. "So, what flavor do you want tonight?"

"Don't care. Dey all taste like crap anyway."

"You sure know how to win over the chef. Tell you what, I'll surprise you."

"Gee, can't wait..." came the muffled response from the other room.

Wilson entered the living room, carrying a putrid brown colored liquid that had strange green bits floating throughout the mixture, bubbles formed and popped on top of the gruel like methane gas releasing from the toxic mud pits of Yellowstone. He had to admit to himself, it didn't look too appealing.

"I'm shupposed ta drink dis? Looks like someting yer dog deposited on da lawn after he ate my leftover refried beans."

"You fed him refried beans? House, you're not...never mind. Just ea...drink it already. It's good for you."

"Anyting dat's so called 'good fer you' tastes like horse piss. It's a known fact."

"And you've sampled this horse piss yourself? Drink it."

"Yeah. Easy fer you ta say while yer shinkin yer teeth inta dat chicken."

"Luckily, I've learned over the years to keep my mouth shut. That's one of the differences between you and me. Hence the reason my teeth are all still intact and I'm capable of enjoying this dinner," emphasizing his point with a large bite of the cheesy dish, orange strings hanging from fork to mouth like miniature moorings. He reeled them in with his lips and chewed, exaggerating each grind of his teeth.

"Don't need yer lecture." House made a slurping sound, pulling air through his own closed teeth, swallowing thickly. Wilson could hear the spittle being drawn to the back of House's throat, snapping and popping through the tight spaces between his teeth.

For a brief moment, Wilson felt sorry for House but the feeling quickly passed when he recalled what had gotten his friend into this predicament in the first place. Maybe House had learned a lesson. Maybe he'd think twice before making a smart ass remark out loud to someone wielding a potential weapon. Maybe Wilson needed to stop fantasizing so much.

"Yeah. Yer de epitome of perfection, aren't you?" House muttered. "When I grow up, I wanna be just like you."

He glanced back towards House, who was begrudgingly sipping the pulverized stew through a large straw, somehow managing to keep a permanent scowl on his face throughout dinner. Wilson had to admit that the brown liquid looked pretty disgusting. Wilson's nose wrinkled involuntarily.

As if on cue, House set down the glass and mumbled to the table, "I stink. Need a shower..." levering himself slowly off the couch, leaving behind half of his dinner.

"I'm not going to even ask if you need help so knock yourself out."

-------------------------

House limped out of the bathroom, steam following him like something out of a low budget horror flick. He was Bela Lugosi with a limp. _Wait, did Bela Lugosi already have a limp?_ He idly thought while he trudged back toward the living room. He had changed into a pair of pajama pants and a white button down shirt that hung off his shoulders loosely since it was still difficult to maneuver his injured shoulder into a tight fitting T-shirt. His eyes swept over the living room in search of Wilson when he heard banging and crashing coming from his right.

Wilson was at it again, passive aggressively cleaning the kitchen and washing dishes with unmatched determination. What reason did _he_ have to be pissed off at the world? It was his right to be pissed off right now, not Wilson's.

The sound of something large plunking into water was followed by a cursory "Dammit!"

"What? Did ya get dishwater on yer ugly tie? 'm sure it'll just blend right in. No one will even notice." He collapsed into the couch and began mindlessly flipping through channels.

"Cut myself."

"Oh. Well, if you would stop trying t'remove the finish from da silverware." House returned to some program about has-been celebrities in rehab with that Dr. Drew guy. It made him feel like his life wasn't a complete failure compared to those losers. "Please tell me I was never dat patetic."

"Yes, you _are _that pathetic and why does it matter? I'm bleeding all over here in case you're interested." Wilson stood in the doorway, kitchen towel wrapped around his left hand. There were little red splotches on the blue and white checkered terrycloth.

"Yer ruining my good kitch'n towel."

"It's your _only _kitchen towel. Glad you're so concerned about my well being."

"An prob'ly not da most sterile makeshift bandage." Leave it to a doctor to grab the most bacteria laden object available to cover an open wound.

"It's clean. I should know since I washed it...in hot water with bleach I might add." Wilson was peeking under the towel with a hint of hesitation, like he was waiting for a giant spider to crawl out and attack him.

"Well, looks like it needs t'be washed again." House replied smugly, spreading some Carmex over his burning lips. He had found that the combination of Natural Ice and Carmex seemed to work the best to prevent his lips from withering like a hapless plant in the middle of the Sahara.

Wilson spread his fingers and hissed. House could see the blood well up from the cut almost immediately. Ouchie. It looked like it was right in the tender webbing between his pointer and middle finger.

"Dat was karma comin back ta bite you in da ass."

"Looks more like it bit me in the hand. And it's _not _karma; and if it was, I should be getting a massage by some naked Playboy Bunny for all the crap I've had to put up with lately..." His voice trailed off, then continued with more fervor. "Ever hear the phrase 'accidents happen'? Damn, it got me right between the fingers..." Wilson muttered at his hand, inspecting the damage with a wrinkled brow.

"How about 'you reap what you sow.' Dis is punishment for makin me drink dat primordial soup and makin me go to PT. God is tellin you ta toss da Magic Bullet, go t'McDonald's an' get me a huge chocolate shake."

"I never _forced _you to drink those. I was being nice. Trying to give you what you needed. I know that's hard for your distorted mind to compute. You can't live on chocolate shakes alone, House."

"Oh yeah? Watch me."

"I've bent over backwards to help you and put up with your bitching and moaning." Wilson kept dabbing at the wound, scrunching his face as he examined it like some kind of rare exotic specimen. "Besides, I thought you didn't believe in God."

"Only when it benefits me." He watched as Wilson kept studying the injury. "Oh, c'mere. Lemme take a look."

"No thank you. I can handle this myself. Have a medical degree and everything."

"Could've fooled me. Who grabs a dirty dish towel t'cover an open wound?"

"It was clea-why am I explaining this to you?" Arms flew up in the air in exasperation. "You want to see? Fine. Here." Wilson promptly extended his middle finger toward House in a gesture that didn't require closer inspection. "Now, where are your Bandaids?"

---------------------------------

Wilson needed to get out. Get away. Anywhere but locked up with House right now. It seemed the more he did for that stubborn jackass, the more aggravating the man became. Every little thing was putting his nerves more on edge. He swore House purposely pushed just to see how far he could go before the volcano that was his own patience finally erupted.

Half the problem was that House hated being cooped up for so long. Besides his PT and doctor appointments, he really hadn't been out of the apartment.

It was time to get House back to work, even if he had lost his entire department. Well, the department was still there, just no actual human beings to represent Diagnostics.

Wilson made a note to talk to Cuddy in the morning. See if maybe she could find a case that would somehow convince House to go back to work. Even though he could tell that House already was climbing the walls at home. Hopefully this would give him that extra incentive to get moving again.

It was time to get the troublemaker back to work whether he liked it or not.

------------------------------------

**A/N: Please hang in there with me. My life may be crazy but I am determined to finish this story. Probably about three more to go. **


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Yes, here I am again, whining about my crazy life and how I have no time to write. Well, it's true! We sold our house and are moving in 3 weeks! Still working hard on this story when I can find the time. Thanks to all who have stuck with me throughout this long journey. I'm guessing about two or three more chapters to go...

Chapter 13

"Do you mind? We haven't even gotten through the front doors yet." Wilson said with a bit of irritation in his voice.

House hadn't stopped grilling Wilson about the supposed 'new case' Cuddy had mentioned, citing a conspiracy by Wilson and Cuddy to force him back to work too early. Physically, he was feeling much better, able to put more weight back on his right leg, even if he was still using the cane on the left side. The only major drawback was his inability to speak clearly with the wires still in place for at least another two and a half weeks. Not that he ever spoke to anyone else but Wilson, Cuddy and his lackeys. And since there were no lackeys to speak of at the moment, the list just got much shorter.

Hopefully, being at work would make the time pass faster than the snail's pace it had been on since the _incident_ as Wilson liked to call it. And just because he was ready to go back to work didn't mean he wanted to actually _work. _ But as comfortable as he found his own apartment, he was getting bored sitting at home, even with the extra entertainment provided by Wilson trying to cut off his own finger.

He glanced down at Wilson's left hand, the Bandaid folded between his first two fingers had gotten all wrinkled and stained with the still-seeping blood. He had told Wilson to get a stitch or two but earned nothing but an annoyed glare. _And he calls me stubborn. _

So Wilson remained hard headed and kept changing the bandage every five minutes after it would end up resembling an over-used twist tie from the constant bending and moving of his fingers.

House found it best to keep his mouth shut (so to speak) or risk the chance of living on chocolate shakes for the next two weeks or so. Not that that would be a bad thing.

After Wilson had returned from his little tantrum at the apartment, the subject of work had come up and Wilson had convinced him to come in on Monday, citing a possible 'case' as bait. Then there was the appointment conveniently scheduled with Stec at eleven thirty that morning, "So why not go in a bit earlier?" Wilson had suggested lightheartedly. But that tone didn't cover the manipulativeness behind the voice.

"I'm not stayin' past noon. When I'm done wit Stec, I'm outta here."

"Fine."

"Fine? Dat's it?" House looked suspiciously toward Wilson, eyebrows furrowed. "No arguin'? No lecture?"

"Nope. No lecture. You're free to go, but I have no idea how you're going to get home since you're not driving yet and I highly doubt public transportation is your best option right now."

The bus.

Visions of being bumped and jostled inside a large box shaped vehicle that was built on pogo sticks flashed in front of his eyes. It was like riding around town on a trampoline with metal bars and sharp corners. Then there were the ignorant assholes and mental cases who had no regard for the handicapped. A stray elbow in the face from a standing passenger, maybe an errant knee to his still-tender leg and he'd be history. It wasn't worth it.

"Good point." House replied matter-of-factly.

Why did Wilson always have to be the damn voice of reason? An escape would've been easier if Wilson hadn't physically clipped his keys to his belt loop like Blew the janitor, jangling as he walked. It would have made an escape a little easier to swipe them. But now the chances of stealing Wilson's keys without being caught were slim to none; the man knew him too well. Dammit.

Unfortunately, the bike was out of the question, too. His shoulder couldn't handle that kind of strain yet. Hell, he could barely lift it horizontally in front of him for no more than a few seconds before the pain took over. No way could he grip the handlebars without being in agony. Then, of course there was the leg that was being extra grouchy because of the deep bruising in the remaining muscle. It would've been difficult just getting on and off the damn thing. God, he was pathetic. If he were a horse, he'd have been history years ago.

_Take me out back and shoot me. _

He thought for a second, eyes glued to the glowing arrow on the elevator button. There was another option. More expensive but worth it. "ll catch a cab."

"I'll buy you lunch." Wilson countered with a bribe in less than a second. Wow. That had to be some kind of record.

"You always buy me lunch. And, 'case ya fergot. Kinda tough to _eat _right now."

"Then I'll get you something to _drink._ Anything wrong with company at lunch time?"

"No, but it usu'lly means you want someting." They both entered the elevator.

"A little bribery never hurt. I thought maybe if I buy you some ice cream, you'll do your chores." Wilson paused for a second before continuing. "Cuddy wants to see you."

House wasn't surprised Wilson was using a bit of bribery to get him to see Cuddy. She was probably still pissed off about him losing his entire team in basically one day. Her precious diagnostics department was in shambles. But it was his choice. His department. She was probably ready to stick him in clinic duty for the rest of his natural life. Suddenly he looked curiously over at Wilson. "Den why're we on d' elevator? Las' time I was here, could've sworn her office was somewhere on da main level."

"I didn't think you'd want to run right into her office first thing in the morning. Usually you need to find your groove; flex your debate skills a bit, yell at your lackeys...if you still had any. You know, a little pre-game warm up."

"Mmmm, true. Maybe I could yell at da nurses instead. Bet I could have one in tears before nine fifteen." He stared at the numbers above the door. The car rocked a bit as it came to a halt, House instinctively put a hand out to keep himself from losing his already precarious balance.

"Problem is they're not your employees and can probably outrun you."

"Tanks for da reminder."

The doors opened and Wilson got out, then paused when he saw House still standing in the car, unmoving.

"Uh, House, this is where you get off. Or are you going to go down there and get it over with now? I could rig up some weapons for you. Maybe make some spears out of old scalpels."

"Tanks for d' offer. Tink I'll just go in unarmed. Maybe she'll see it as an act of peace. Den I'll go in for da kill when she least expects it." The doors tried shutting but he shoved his cane against one side, keeping their conversation going and people on other floors waiting.

"Sounds like a plan. Not that she'd ever see that coming from you." Wilson returned back to the original subject. "It's just a case. I think you're safe right now. Doubt she's ready to throw you to the wolves in the clinic just yet." Wilson pointed at the elevator. "You're holding up the elevator."

"Dey can catch anutter one. I'm sure she's whipped up some lame case dat I could prob'bly solve in my sleep." The doors tried to eat his cane once again, to no avail. "I'll go indulge her wants an' needs. Meet ya back here around noon."

"Here as in _here?" _Wilson motioned towards the floor. "I thought we'd eat in the cafeteria today."

"_You _get to eat. _I _have t' drink wit dese," He curled his lip back, exposing the wires and metal, "see da diff'rence? Not about t' put on a show for da locals here an drool all over myself in front of 'em." House was...uncomfortable...to say the least about his current lack of masticatory skills. "Yer office. Noon."

"It's a date."

-----------------------------------

Wilson returned a little before noon with a tray full of food and was caught off guard when he found House sitting at the couch, trying to glare holes through the door.

"Did I really look dat desp'rate? Did you know she was gonna trow some lame cases at me and try t' pass dem off as 'difficult'? Feel like I wasted da whole morning. Were you in on dis?"

Of course he was in on it. He'd have given House a hangnail case if it got him to focus on something other than his own misery. "And what would you have been doing? Maybe watching some mindless television, or staring at the walls or searching your porn sites for some new downloads?"

"It would've been very productive."

"You needed to get out. Stimulate your brain with something other than Boobalicious Babes on Broadway."

"Dey could've won a Tony wit dat performance..."

"Right. It was better than Cats. I get it." Wilson answered flatly.

"So you tought by givin me a case of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever I would be _stimulated_?

"Thought the late onset of the rash might have thrown you."

"Very common wit RMSF, if you had paid attention in yer infectious d'seases class."

"So, what did Cuddy say besides agreeing with you that we're all idiots and wasting your time with pointless cases?"

"She missed my magnetic charm and couldn't wait to jump my-"

"She's right here and needs to talk to Wilson for a moment," Cuddy interrupted, storming in as if on a mission, carrying several folders. She locked eyes with Wilson. "Did you know he was having trouble reading?"

"Did you know dat it's weird to talk about yerself in tird person?" House mumbled.

"I'm betting he failed to mention that little detail to you. Am I right?" She questioned, turning and staring accusingly at House who had suddenly found an interest in the handle of his cane. So, what he had suspected was true.

"Suddenly it's a crime t'be farsighted. Left m'glasses at home." House sounded like the kid who forgot his homework.

"Oh, don't give me that." Cuddy asked, "If you knew you needed them why didn't you bring them with you?"

"Because I din't know you'd become 'n opth'lmologis' since I've been gone!" Wilson found it quite amusing to watch House yell through clenched teeth and metal, lips curled back into a sneer.

For some reason, with his mouth wired shut, House's outburst didn't carry the same oomph it usually held. It was like being afraid of a gun with no ammo. Okay, maybe that was a bad analogy. House was always a loaded gun, waiting to go off. Wilson chuckled to himself as he thought_, yeah, a loaded gun with a muzzle._

But House's blurry vision did raise some concerns. He thought he had noticed something earlier this week when House refused to read his chart and also caught him covering an eye with his hand when trying to read the computer screen.

"Wilson?" Cuddy looked expectantly at him, as if House had disclosed all of his secrets to him.

"What?"

Her eyebrows disappeared under her hairline as she waved her hands towards the statue on the couch now trying to drill a hole through the floor with the tip of his cane.

"You think he'd tell _me_?" God, they sounded like a married couple bickering over their recalcitrant child.

"Get Stec on the phone." Cuddy fell into her 'I'm the boss' mode and Wilson jumped like a trained dolphin, dialing the extension within seconds. She turned toward House. "You're going to see him now."

"Prob'ly jus' need my _glasses _as I already mentioned. Or jus' a little post-concussion syndrome." House blew it off like it was nothing more than a skinned knee.

Wilson finished his brief conversation with Stec and hung up. "He'll see you right now. He's on lunch."

"Dis is why I din't say anyting. Because you two end up playin 'mommy 'n daddy and treat me like da five year old you never had." House sunk back further into the cushions, crossing his arms in front of him, much like the five year old he mentioned.

"We wouldn't have to do that if you'd have been honest with us in the past," Cuddy explained with a bit of ire in her tone.

Wilson tried to play the nonchalant good guy. "House. Let's go. Quick exam. In. Out. Back on the street causing havoc in no time."

Cuddy wasn't so placating. "Up. Now. Or so help me, I'll knock your ass out and we'll drag you up there on a gurney."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me." Cuddy's posture screamed 'don't screw with me right now'. "I will not have my head of diagnostics end up with a brain aneurysm, or worse yet, dead because of something he dismissed as 'normal' in his own fantasy land."

"You gonna tie me up first? Maybe use da handcuffs?"

"No, you have Wilson for that. Go. Now."

House rolled his eyes but obeyed Cuddy's demands, cursing under his breath as he pounded the tip of his cane on the floor. In the blink of an eye, he was on his feet and heading for the door.

Wilson leapt up and fell into step next to House's surprisingly quick gait. For someone who was just complaining about being forced to see Stec, the guy was sure in a hurry to get there.

_________________________________________

House and Stec were seated across from each other, House's forehead resting against the metal frame of the apparatus used to check his eyesight. "Dis is pointless."

"Now look down," Stec ordered as a narrow beam of light concentrated directly on House's eyes. "There. That's it."

"_What's_ it?" asked Wilson, who was standing behind Stec, staring at the same vibrant blue irises. He didn't notice anything out of the ordinary from his vantage point, although he was a few feet behind the other doctor.

"See the slight deviation in the angle of the pupils when he looks up and down?"

Wilson moved forward and all but rested his chin on Stec's shoulder as he studied House's eyes.

"Wilson, don't y'have sometin better t'do?" House mumbled but surprisingly his eyeballs continued to obey Stec's orders.

"And miss all this fun?" Wilson squinted at House's eyes and noticed how the left pupil seemed a bit lazy, unable to follow its twin. "Ahhh. I see it now." The deviation was so slight, it was hard to see from his original vantage point.

"You've got entrapment of the inferior rectus muscle causing the left eye to be pulled slightly out of position." Stec noted professionally. "I can get an ophthalmologist to confirm if you'd like, but I've seen this before."

"Already saw one dis morning..." House mumbled under his breath then turned to Wilson, "told ya it wasn't m'head. Not ne'rolig'cal."

"No, you didn't have any symptoms to be concerned about besides dizziness, headaches, double vision," Wilson bit back sarcastically.

"Which can be a hundred udder tings."

Stec started feeling around House's left cheek bone. "There was a slight fracture in the zygoma but everything feels aligned properly. Could be due to the residual swelling around the orbit. Usually it clears itself within a few weeks to a few months. If it doesn't, we'll have to go in and release the muscle surgically."

"So in udder words, dis trip was for nutting."

"I'm sure you're exhausted from your trek to the elevator and down the hall but I do still need to take out the sutures so it wasn't a complete waste of time. We'll cancel your original appointment scheduled for...?

"Talk t'my secr'tary." House angled a thumb Wilson's direction.

"Wednesday," Wilson answered without hesitation.

"Wednesday," Stec repeated, scribbling something down on House's chart. "Right now we'll just keep an eye on your eye, so to speak."

House threw a smug tight-lipped smile in Wilson's direction.

"So, you're saying if it doesn't clear on its own, it'll require surgery?"

"Wilson's always da negative one. He sees da urine sample cup half empty," he explained to Stec before turning his attention back to Wilson. "If you'd been listening like da rest of da class instead of starin dreamily into my eyes, you might've heard him say dat."

Stec mirrored House's smile and explained the procedure. "It's pretty simple. We can go in through the vestibule here," Stec stuck his gloved finger into House's mouth and shoved it between his upper teeth and cheek. House scrunched up his left eye as Stec looked like he was trying to shove his finger right through House's cheek into his eyeball.

"Nothing is simple when it comes to him," Wilson replied, leaning his hip against the exam table.

"It's outpatient surgery and wouldn't take long at all. You would need general anesthesia, though." Stec snapped off his gloves and tossed them on the tray.

"Git yer fingers outta my mout! And why are we even discussing someting dat won't be happening?" grumbled House, smearing more Carmex onto his lips after Stec stretched them beyond their limits. Those lips had an uncanny resemblance to a couple of withered, dried up earthworms on a blacktop driveway in the middle of summer . "Can we go now?"

"Not yet. Gotta take the sutures out, assuming you haven't already."

"Would've if I could actually i_see/i _what I was doin'."

Stec grabbed the suture removal kit and quickly disinfected the skin along House's jawline before setting to work.

"Hmmm, hard to tell what's suture and what's stubble. I'll just wing it."

"Yer 'ilarious."

Within thirty seconds, after a few yelps and a few missing whiskers, the stitches had been removed and Stec declared House a free man.

"Finally..." House hopped off the table and grabbed his cane that was propped up against the cabinet. "And you did dat on purpose," he added, rubbing the side of his face.

"And I'm sure his own mother has no clue what happened, right?" Stec questioned, directed more toward Wilson because House had fled the exam room, leaving a trail of flimsy tissue paper from the table to the door.

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House entered his darkened office, trudged over to his desk and collapsed into his chair. Why did everyone feel like they needed to babysit him? It was getting old really fast. All he wanted was to be left alone and suffer in peace. He pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping no one would decide to walk in and check up on the poor crippled helpless waif. After a few moments he started rummaging through the mail that had piled up on his desk in the last few weeks.

"What are you looking for?" Cuddy's voice pierced through the relative peace and quiet of his office.

He didn't even bother to stop and look up. "An excuse to get away from you."

"You can stop looking. Since you've decided to grant us with your presence but no longer have a team, you get to offer your services to other parts of this hospital until you've hired new fellows." Cuddy paused for a moment. He heard her hands slap the top of his desk and he looked up to see two sets of Cuddys hovering over him. "I want you to help out in the ER."

House's gaze dropped from her face to the cleavage bursting out from under her low-cut blouse.

"Hmmm. Dis double vision ting might have a few benefits. Double da pleasure." House retorted, eyes glued to the subjects at hand.

"House. Did you hear me?"

"What? Seems I've gone deaf from the magnitude of your breasts."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"Does t'me." House finally answered her question. "Don't you already have dat idiot, Dr. Hotcock, runnin' da show?"

"Actually, I just hired someone new for the position. But Dr. Cockburn (pronouncing it Co-burn) is still there to help with the transition to the new department head. "

"Bet he's lovin dat. Tell me, is he still as wortless as he was in surg'ry?" He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the desk, carefully lifting his right leg with his left. His right arm rested in his lap, the sling discarded ever since his second PT session. "How many patients has he lost since moving to da ER?"

"Well, that's the whole point in having you down there, isn't it? To save the countless number of lives Cockburn would surely lose." There was an air of sarcasm in that voice. "Good thing we have you to save the day. You swoop in and rescue the hapless victims from the clutches of the mad scientist."

"Hey, I tought I was da mad scientist around here."

"No, you're the evil genius. What do you say?"

"Sure dey'll love havin me. Firedick hates my guts."

"Well, maybe if you stopped with the name game, and...oh...I don't know, show him an iota of respect? It might help."

"C'mon, Cuddy. Y'know me better dan dat. I mean, wit a name like his, how could anyone resist?"

"That's what got you into this predicament in the first place. If you'd learn to keep your mo-"

"Spare me da lecture," House interrupted,"already heard it from Wilson."

"Fine. I don't want to hear any stories about how you shut down the ER with some meningitis scare or placed an order for five thousand tongue depressors."

"Would I do sometin like dat?" He threw his most innocent look her direction, puppy dog eyes and dry, cracked pouty lips.

"You already _have_." Cuddy rolled her eyes as she exited his office. "Try to play nice!" she called over her shoulder as the door slowly closed behind her.

House stared at the glass wall in front of him. He had a few things to think about.

----------------------------------------------

Wilson was finishing up some paperwork while House lounged casually on the couch, having a conversation with one of the ceiling tiles.

"She wants me to work da ER. Be an," House made quotation marks in the air, "on sight diagnostic expert. Da 'go to' guy."

"That doesn't sound too bad. You'll still get to diagnose the tough cases without having to do any leg work so to speak. Not that you ever did any in the past."

Wilson had a point. His leg was still recovering from the deep bruising and his shoulder wasn't nearly strong enough to bear his weight yet. It made getting around _that_ much more challenging.

"I'd have to be around a bunch of sick people. If I wanted dat, I'd go work in da clinic."

"Well, at least in the ER, the idiots can be weeded out before you get to them."

Also, people in the ER were usually too sick to be talkative or they were totally unconscious which made for a pretty compliant patient.

"You should consider it. Sure beats sitting around your apartment, watching game shows or old reruns on TV Land."

"C'mon. How can you tink workin da ER could beat out a Leave It T'Beaver maraton?"

"I know how you have a thing for Mrs. Cleaver but please consider the offer."

"I'll tink about it..."

A/N: Please point out any glaring mistakes. I've been trying to make sure I'm staying consistent with this story but I'm only human. Thanks!


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

A/N: I've moved! Trying to settle into the new house. Anyway, to anyone who is still following this, here's an update. I'll do my best to finish the story by the end of this month. Eek!

No pressure. Thanks again for sticking with me. I appreciate each and every one of you! Oh, and yes, Cameron is in this chapter. Still a House and Wilson story.

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Cameron hustled around the crowded emergency room, calling out orders to the other doctors, interns and nurses who were now under her direction. She was still shocked that Cuddy had enough faith in her abilities to put her in charge of the entire ER department.

But with only about two weeks' experience under her belt, she was feeling slightly overwhelmed. In the ER, she saw more patients in a day than she had seen in the last year under House. Sure, most of the cases were simple to diagnose and treat, but the sheer volume outweighed the simplicity of the cases.

"Irrigate that laceration at number four and grab a suture kit. I'll be over there in a minute," she called to the nurse as she kept glancing around for the doctor who was supposed to be replacing Dr. Cockburn.

Still no sign. Cuddy had promised that she'd send some relief in the form of an experienced doctor. Any additional personnel would help ease the burden of treating the never-ending flow of patients.

She hastily grabbed the patient's chart and started scribbling down medication and dosage. Her pen halted on the paper when, suddenly, she felt a little shiver run up her spine. It was something she had experienced only when _he _was watching her.

She took a moment to glance up from the chart in her hands.

The sea of green, blue and pink scrubs parted and that's when she saw him.

He was seated on a vacant bed in the far corner of the long room, dressed in various shades of blue and black; a stark contrast to the bleached white sheets and wall that served as a backdrop behind him. A giant plastic cup with a straw poking out of it sat balanced between his thighs, right hand resting lazily around the rim.

From her vantage point she could see the remains of what must have been a pretty massive shiner, shades of green and yellow still framed the bottom portion of his left eye, vanishing under the ever present scruff.

The rumors regarding House's so called 'incident' flew around the hospital like a supersonic jet, the rude comments following behind like a trail of foul-smelling exhaust. Remarks such as "it was about time", "he was asking for it" or "surprised it hadn't happened sooner" were commonplace. It pissed her off beyond reason but she held her tongue and refused to bring herself down to that level of immaturity.

Those piercing blue eyes met her gaze as the corner of his mouth raised slightly into that familiar lopsided smirk.

She approached him with an air of confidence, arms crossed protectively in front of her chest. She was an oxymoron of self-assurance.

"So, dis is where dey hid you." House stated nonchalantly. When he spoke, she caught a glimpse of metal over clenched teeth, held together by rows of wires and rubber bands.

So, the rumors were true.

A pang of sympathy went out to him as she imagined how difficult it must have been to deal with losing one of his most potent weapons. Let alone the fact that he was unable to even eat a normal meal. She did her best to hide her concern and responded with a close-lipped smile of her own.

"Wasn't hiding. I've been here for almost two weeks. I see you handled our departure in your typical fashion."

House took a swig of what looked like a chocolate shake through the straw, lips pursed tightly around it. He pulled out a napkin and quickly wiped his mouth. "What d'you mean? It's my new extreme makeover diet. Is it working?" House waved a hand over his body in demonstration.

"House." She stated bluntly, trying to get him to 'fess up about what really happened.

"Okay. Y'got me. 'm audish'ning for da next James Bond movie as Jaws II." House then did his best impression of the villainous character from the series, pulling his lips back in a fake snarl. "Not t'be confused wit da bad shark movies from da seventies."

"Nice try."

He stared at her, eyes sliding up to her now blonde hair. "Change professions? I tink you'll have better luck on a street corner in downtown Jersey. Da clientele in here is pretty lame if ya asked me. Most can't stand up, let alone git it up if y'know what I mean," a waggle of his eyebrows emphasizing his lewd comment.

"It's my natural color. And I like working the ER. I feel like I'm really making a difference down here."

"Yeah, because you never saved any lives workin wit me," his voice edged with sarcasm.

"This is different."

"Why? Is it quantity, not qual'ty? We weren't savin enough lives t'fill yer daily quota? Any moron wit a medical degree could treat da patients here. Where's da challenge in dat?"

Cameron looked away, uncomfortable with the sudden scrutiny put on her.

"Sure you didn't quit 'cause I fired Chase? Y'know, martyr yourself in his name? 'm sure it makes ya feel all noble."

She couldn't really answer the question. Why did she really quit?

When it came to House, her feelings fluctuated all over the place like the damn stock market. One second he was sacrificing his own medical license to try to save a life, the next second he was making some rude comment or sticking his nose into private issues that were none of his business. He'd done it to her on several occasions, invading her privacy and delving into her personal medical information. It made her want to throttle him sometimes.

She somewhat understood why that guy had hit him. House had a tremendous ability to bring out the worst in even the most tolerant person.

Shrugging her shoulder, she answered bluntly, "maybe I just needed a change."

House nodded slightly, taking another sip of whatever he was drinking.

"So, how have-" She started before being rudely interrupted.

"Where's da new boss? I heard Dr. Hotcock got canned."

Cameron tried to restrain a giggle at House's name for Cockburn. "He didn't get canned, but he's no longer in charge. I am."

She wished she could've whipped out her camera phone and caught House's look of surprise for all eternity. He was a deer caught in the headlights.

"What? You don't think I'm capable of doing the job?"

"No, I don't. Yer a pushover. A softy. Do people ac'shally listen to you? Because, you know, you're not like d'most autor'tative person on da planet."

"You'd be surprised. Sometimes people respond better to a softer touch."

"I'll bet..." Scrutinizing eyes wandered over her as if she were his whiteboard, straw wedged between his lips. The inspection made her feel a bit self conscious but she stayed strong and resisted the urge to look away. _Don't let him find your weakness._

"Okay. So whaddya got fer me?" He changed the subject. Always a good sign. She quickly went along with him.

"We've got a thirty-two year old female, right over here-"

"Din't ask to see da patient. Symptoms?"

"Fever, rash, fatigue."

"What type of rash?"

"Purplish in color. Not raised. More patchy."

"Fatigue or is it overall weakness?"

"She had a hard time getting up from her chair."

"Trouble swallowing?"

Cameron nodded.

"It's dermatomy'sitis. Start her on predn'sone and order physical terapy to prevent muscle atr'phy."

"Already have." She conveniently left out the obvious symptom of the calcium deposits under the skin which would have surely given the answer away.

"Chalk one up for da ex-lackey. Got anyting else?"

"We've got a twenty seven year old male, abdominal pain, started in middle, now lower right quadrant, slight fever, vomiting-"

"Appendicitis. Yer boring me."

Even she had to admit that these were run-of-the-mill ailments dealt with in the ER on a daily basis.

He took another swig of his drink, slid gently off the bed onto his good leg and grabbed his cane. She could see the pain in his eyes, grimacing slightly as his right foot made contact with the floor. He was hurting more than he was willing to show. Probably still some residual pain from the 'incident'.

She tried to reel him in with another case. "Okay. We've got-"

"Oh, look at da time." Feigning a glance at his watch. "Gotta go."

"You just got here."

"And now I'm just leaving. When someting inter'sting comes up, you know where t'find me."

"Same hiding places as usual? Unless you're expanding to somewhere outside the hospital."

"Nope. Wilson's my chauffeur so I'm stuck here til he's ready to go." He pivoted on his left foot and headed for the main entrance of the ER.

It was strange watching him limp away with the cane in his left hand. She was so used to seeing that unorthodox lurch he had mastered over the years. Even with a bum leg, his pace was normally faster than most people with two healthy legs. There were times when she struggled to keep up with him in the hallways.

But there he was, slowly and carefully making his way towards the exit, looking more like one of the patients from the geriatrics ward instead of the strong presence he usually exuded.

A pang of sympathy erupted in her chest when she found herself staring after him. Her contemplation was interrupted when a blue file was shoved into her line of sight by one of the nurses who was babbling symptoms in her ear. Quickly she turned back and focused on the job at hand, trying to ignore the slight knot that had formed in her chest.

----------------------------------------------

"Did you know Cam'ron is runnin' da ER now?" House casually mentioned as he and Wilson rode the elevator back to the main level of the hospital.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to figure that out." He'd heard through the grapevine that Cameron had earned the position as head of the ER department. It wasn't necessary to blab that information to House. He would have figured it out on his own soon enough. And honestly, he didn't think House wanted any of his underlings seeing him in his current state, especially Cameron. She'd probably smother him with sympathy or pity...or both. But it must have gone alright since House didn't seem ready to open fire on anyone in the elevator yet.

"Her hair's blonde," House stated matter-of-factly.

"That's her natural color."

"Dat's what she told me but how da hell did y'know dat?"

"I have my people." He wasn't about to tell him he had a nice conversation with her last week when she came to his office to find out how House was doing. He had kept his answers vague and told her that he was doing fine and not to bug him. Surprisingly, she had kept her word.

"Who?"

"People. I know it's a difficult concept to understand. Yes, House. I have more than one friend. You should try it some time."

"Why? So I'd have t'deal wit more dan one self-righteous, guilt-ridden, overly needy social vampire who won't leave me alone?"

"Well, that's one way to look at it. Or you might find it helpful to have colleagues who can spy for you and learn secrets before your other friends find out...or in your case, friend."

"Yeah, yeah. I get it." His voice suddenly lowered a bit and he looked down at the handle of his cane. "She was doing dat Cameron ting...pitying me. Made me want to throw up a little in my mout but den I would've had t' swallow it."

Wilson wrinkled his nose a bit at the thought. "Sure it wasn't simple human concern? You know, House, it's not a bad thing to have people care about you even if it does make your insides crawl with disgust."

"She din't even try t'stop me from leaving."

"And that's different how? You always disappeared when she was working for you-"

"Exactly! Now she's _not _working fer me, but she din't treat me like a fellow coworker, she still treated me like I was her boss."

"You intimidate her. Hell, you intimidate ninety nine percent of the people in this hospital. Give it some time. She just started that job and it's only been what...a little over two weeks since she left? Things aren't going to change overnight, especially with you working there now."

"Temp'rarily."

"Whatever. It doesn't matter how long it's been. She'll probably always feel like you're her boss, head honcho, the big cheese, numero uno."

"Okay, I get it, I get it."

Wilson continued, "or she just knows you well enough that no matter what she says or does, you'll still do what you want anyway."

"True."

They pushed through the front entrance and headed for the parking lot, Wilson keeping his pace a bit slower to stay with House who was still struggling a bit with the cane in his left hand.

"Want me to get the car?"

"No. Need to walk. Damn leg stiffened up on me. Too much sittin around." House was trying to keep the weight off his leg by leaning more to the left on his cane but looked completely off balance, ready to topple over like an unbalanced action figure that never wanted to stay on its feet.

"Damn it..." House mumbled as he hop-skipped to save himself from falling on his face. Wilson fought the urge to jump in and grab House's arm but he refrained, fearful of receiving a cane to the shin.

"Can't wait til dis damn shoulder heals...or my leg makes a miraculous recov'ry. Whichever comes first." He reached down and squeezed the damaged muscle, long fingers locked tightly around his thigh. "Not holdin m'breath for the leg."

"Speaking of...you have a PT appointment tomorrow morning followed by a visit with Stec. I'm sure you're thrilled."

"Can't wait."

They made their way to Wilson's car and climbed inside, House a little more cautious than usual. Once inside, Wilson felt House's eyes on him and he turned to meet his friend's gaze.

"What?" Wilson asked innocently, placing his arm over the back of House's seat as he prepared to back out of the parking space.

A slight smile from House made Wilson suspicious. It was an appreciative look, almost as if he was about to say something meaningful or sappy.

"Nuttin." And just like that, the moment was over and House turned back toward the passenger side window. "Jus' wonderin if I should hire you as my secr'tary."

"But you'd have to put me on the payroll. Then there's tax forms to fill out, uniform allowances, lunch money, sexual harassment suits to file."

"Hmmmm. Good point. I'll jus' keep you as my bitch. Less paperwork."

"Good choice." _You're welcome, _he thought as he made his way into rush hour traffic. Wilson wore a slight smile the rest of the way home, oblivious to House's own smirk reflecting off the passenger side window.

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	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Thanks so much to everyone sticking with this story. I'm in the home stretch now. A few more chapters to go. Thanks to Magie05 for her help. I changed a bunch of stuff after she checked it so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. Please point out any glaring errors. I'd appreciate it. Thanks again!**

Chapter 15

"Looks like it's healing well. Probably about another week with the wires," Stec said, staring at the latest films. "You haven't lost too much weight. That's good."

House looked down at his body. He had only lost about five pounds, his jeans a little baggier than usual. "You can tank Wilson for dat."

It had only been three weeks since his jaw was broken, but it had felt like a lifetime. He swore there must have been a garden growing behind his teeth by now or maybe some mushrooms or some _Candida albicans_. Never had he stuck to such a strict regiment of good oral hygiene, using the Waterpik Wilson had given him on a daily basis.

Losing that molar had come in handy: a perfect spot to stick that pulsating water tip into the space and clean behind his teeth where his toothbrush couldn't reach. The gap also made an excellent delivery system for his Vicodin, much better than having to drink the nasty liquid version of stale Gummi Bears.

The sharp twinges in his healing jaw had diminished greatly, replaced by a dull ache that seemed to encompass more muscle than bone. They were aching to move, tightening up after being locked in the same position for so long.

One thing he had noticed since the initial sharp pain had receded was the annoying tingling sensation running through the left side of his lower jaw. Obviously, the inferior alveolar nerve had been damaged and now his jaw was immersed in a sea of pins and needles. It was the same uncomfortable feeling he felt when local anesthetic started to wear off following a dental procedure.

His leg constantly emitted similar sensations; the lingering effects of damaged nerves. At least his jaw should heal with time, unlike his permanently mangled leg.

"Well, whatever he's been feeding you, it's working," Stec pulled House's cheeks out of the way to take a look at the hardware.

"Tastes 'etter dan it looks." House replied, his mouth full of Stec's fingers.

"Pureed food never looks appetizing." Stec smiled as he lifted House's upper lip to check his gum tissue.

"Yer tellin 'e."

"The wax working for you?" Stec's nose was inches from his face, eyes narrowed in concentration. House found it better to look up at the ceiling and avoid the other doctor's gaze.

He nodded in response. His cheeks had thanked him immensely after he'd covered the sharp barbs with little wads of the sticky material.

"Everything looks good. Let's schedule you next week to get these removed."

It was music to House's ears. Never had he looked forward to a medical procedure before.

"You'll be sedated, so someone has to drive you home."

House nodded again as Stec removed his gloves. "How's the shoulder?" Stec asked while filling out House's ever-growing medical chart.

"Not bad. Still weak," he stated bluntly, rotating it in a small arc to demonstrate. There were still twinges in the joint along with audible snaps and pops from the healing tendons and ligaments.

"Give it time."

"Yeah, I'm sick of hearing dat."

"How about the eyesight? Any improvement yet?"

He looked up and down several times, gauging the fuzziness. "Yeah, as long as I don't look up or down."

"Smart ass. Seriously, any better?"

"Yeah, a little." He recalled being able to read some charts in the ER by holding them directly in front of him, keeping his eyes on a relatively level line of sight.

"Good."

"So, I'll see you next week then. I'm sure you're excited to get those things off."

God, if Stec only knew. It should be a requirement for doctors to have to deal with what they put their own patients through. He thought about his own patients and what he'd put them through and decided that probably wasn't the best idea he'd had.

He did pat himself on the back for not going to the nearest hardware store and snipping every band off his teeth. Several times he had the cutters in his hand, ready to snip. The only thing preventing him from doing so was the knowledge that the wires would go back on and he'd be back to square one.

"They'll schedule you on your way out." Stec stuck out his hand in offer of a handshake. House reluctantly raised his right hand and Stec shook it gently, mindful of his still healing shoulder.

"Um, tanks," he muttered uncomfortably as he turned to leave the exam room.

Soon he'd be returning to the wonderful world of chewing food and being able to talk without sounding like some idiot with a speech impediment.

Another week. Seven days. He could do it.

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House strolled into the ER, taking in the mayhem around him. He should've known Dickburn was temporarily in charge. The man couldn't organize his own desk, let alone an entire department. But then again, he shouldn't talk. He hated paperwork and all the other crap that went along with running a department.

_That's why you hire lackeys,_ he thought.

Spotting the tightly wound doctor, he made his way carefully over to the red faced asshole.

"You're two hours late," Cockburn snapped, sending an evil glare his direction as he scribbled in a chart.

"And you've learned t'tell time. Impressive. Alarm must not've gone off. Guess it's lunchtime." He pivoted on his heel and began to leave when a tiny hand grabbed his arm. Definitely not Dickburn's.

"You're not going anywhere. We need the help."

"And where've you been? Din't I tell you no more sleepovers on school nights?" House chastised in a motherly tone.

"In a department head meeting, same place you should have been."

"Well, technic'lly don't have a department right now."

Cameron just rolled her eyes as she started rifling through the pile of new cases admitted recently to the ER.

House glanced over her shoulder at the charts, trying to see if there was anything even remotely interesting to him. "Whaddya got beshides shtuffy noses, vomit and oozing orifishes?"

"Hmmm, let's see... Nothing that would interest someone of your stature," replied Cockburn with biting sarcasm. "Heart attack, insulin shock, motorcycle accident, some kid stupid enough to light off explosives while still holding them."

Kid trying to blow off his own hand. Yes, that sounded entertaining enough. At least he could go over and make fun of the moron missing some fingers. That should kill at least fifteen minutes.

On his way across the room, he caught sight of something familiar. House paused for a moment, staring at the man several beds down who seemed oblivious to his presence. For some reason he looked vaguely familiar. The man was staring straight ahead, arms folded in front of him, pissed off at the world.

Ignoring the patient, House started back toward the moron who was now permanently flipping everyone the bird with his right hand.

At that instant, the pissed off patient turned his head, revealing greasy hair tied back in a pony tail. That was when House noticed the all-too-familiar looking denim vest.

No way. It couldn't be him.

House played it cool on the exterior, while his insides were doing backflips. It was a mixture of anger, fear, anxiety...and vindictive.

Motioning with his head towards bed number nine, he asked as calmly as possible as to not lead anyone to become suspicious, "What's wit da Hell's Angel?"

"Him?" Cameron motioned with her eyes, "that's the motorcycle accident victim. No medical mystery there. Broken tib-fib, a few cuts and bruises. Northing life threatening. Blood alcohol level of .11." She rattled off some other stats from the chart before he grabbed it from her hand.

"Sounds interesting t'me," ignoring Cameron's annoyed glare.

He casually crossed the room, trying his best to hide the anxiety welling up inside him. It was like getting ready to step on the field during the high school lacrosse championships, butterflies moving in where his stomach had once been.

From a few beds away, House could see the man leaning against the raised head of the bed, left leg wrapped in a temporary splint. Small cuts and scrapes peppered his hands and face, tell-tale signs of a battle with the pavement. Obviously the pavement had won. Good for it.

As he approached from the man's right, who was still looking the other way, House studied the patient's right hand. The ring finger was bent outward at a slight angle, the knuckle more enlarged than the neighbors, evidence of a past injury. Then there was the coiled tail of a familiar snake tattoo protruding out from the bottom of a torn sleeve.

Holy crap, it really _was _the guy.

The Gods of Revenge were with him today, or the Karma Gods, or some other god. Whoever the hell it was, he was thankful. The corner of his mouth twitched up into a lopsided evil grin as he calmly stood next to the bed, insides in turmoil, waiting for the other man to face him.

Suddenly, the biker turned his head towards him, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "Who're you?" he snapped, showing no sign of recognition.

"I work here."

"You finally taking me to get my leg fixed? Bout time."

"Oh, yessir. Right away." House answered but continued to stand next to the bed, arms folded in front of him, the close-lipped smile still firmly planted on his face. He wasn't surprised the guy didn't recognize him right away. The cane was conveniently hidden behind the edge of the bed, leaning against the mattress, totally out of sight. The residual bruising on his face had faded completely, leaving no real visible evidence behind. Besides, the guy was probably wasted that night and not completely sober right now, according to the tox screen - and it was only eleven-thirty in the morning.

"What are you doin?" The man was clearly getting agitated with House's probing stare. "Do you work here or are you just gonna sit there and stare at me?"

"Oh, I work here." It was time to end the charade. He pulled his lips back from his teeth, exposing the hardware filling his mouth. Pointing at his own face, he asked, "Remember me?"

A blank, confused stare was all House received as he watched the gears in the guy's head try to move through the alcohol-induced sludge. Nothing. No response.

"You confused me wit a cue ball."

Slowly, he lifted his cane into view, holding it up in front of him for the patient to see. "How 'bout dis? Ring any bells?"

Suddenly, the color drained from the pock marked face, realization hitting him hard. "Look, I...shit...it was...no fucking way." The man shook his head as if this were all a bad dream.

"Way." What were the odds that the same guy who busted his face would end up in the same ER where he worked? Karma was definitely in his favor for once. Maybe he'd play the lottery today.

House quickly grabbed the privacy curtain and pulled it around the bed with a _zip _while Biker Dude stared back at him, dumbfounded.

"Hmmm..." House placed a finger up to his lips in contemplation, "looks like we've got a situation here. Seems I've got da physical advantage now. Wanna take anudder swing at me?"

House brought his cane up and rested it on his shoulder like a soldier ready to march.

"Stay away from me. You touch me, I'll yell." He was trying to worm his way through the mattress itself.

"Really tink dats a good idea?" House hung his cane on the end of the bed and hobbled to the medication drawer, pulling out a prepared syringe. "If I were you, da last ting I'd want right now is attention."

"You nuts? What kinda doctor are you?"

"Ever see Silence of da Lambs?" House put on his best evil grin as he held the syringe in front of him.

He was enjoying this little game he had started. The syringe hovered near the injection port of the IV. "All I have t'do is inject this into dat little tube tingy and you'll be sleepin like a baby. And dat leg looks like it might need t'go. Mmmm, fresh meat."

God, he wished he could use his tongue to make that slurping noise Hannibal Lecter did so well. Instead, he improvised and made his best insane face; eyes bugged out, metal and teeth glimmering from the overhead lights.

The biker's chest started to heave, sitting up on his elbows, trying to escape the mad doctor. "You're insane! They said it was a simple break!" He tilted his head back and started to yell for the nurse.

"I'd keep it down if I were you, unless you want me to get da police. Sure dey'd be happy to know who I've got here as a patient since dere is a warrant out for yer arrest for possible felony charges." Okay, he might have exaggerated that last part a bit, but the guy didn't know anything different.

The biker immediately started to protest.

"'m startin t'get a little shaky." He shook his hand violently, the tip of the needle inches from the IV port.

"You're crazy!" Biker Dude took a deep breath and tried to speak calmly. "Look man, I'm sorry about what happened. Thought you were taking a swing at me with that cane."

"Right. Da guy wit one good leg was gonna start a bar fight. I tugged yer arm t'get yer attention you piece of crap."

"How was I supposed to know that was all you were doin? It was self defense! What do you want me to do, man?"

"You can learn from yer mistakes. Remember dat little bet we made? You know, da one you conveni'ntly forgot about when y'developed sudden onset amnesia?"

The other man averted his eyes, looking at anything but House.

"Mmmhmm. Tought so. Not so tough when yer flat on yer back. Mmm, guess it depends what yer doin while flat on yer back...anyway, You owe me...I believe it was sixty bucks...plus forty in interest t'make it an even hundred."

The greasy patient started to protest.

"You gonna argue wit me? Da guy who can control yer future right now? One phone call is all it would take." He reached toward his belt clip to grab his cell phone.

"No. No, man...I'll...do what you want. Just leave the cops out of it." House was sure the guy must have had other outstanding warrants or something.

Without warning, an unfamiliar head peeked through the curtain. "Everything okay here?"

"Private consult. Havin some issues in his manly region. Problem is it's not quite so manly right now, if y'know what I mean." He raised an eyebrow at the nurse who simply rolled her eyes and left the two alone again.

"So, what'll it be? You pay up and I'll walk outta here witout looking back. Or you can make dis difficult and I make a simple phone call to da police." House flipped open his phone.

"C'mon, man," he pleaded, "I...don't got that kinda cash on me."

"You don't _got _dat much?" House repeated, emphasizing the other man's bad grammar. "Hmmm, dat's a shame. Den have fun with yer new roomie, Bubba." He started to dial his phone.

"Wait! I got money in the bank."

"Doesn't do me much good dere." House thought for a moment. "Got an ATM card or a debit card?"

"Yeah, ATM card in my wallet there." He replied, pointing to the pile of personal effects on the tray.

House grabbed the wallet and checked the amount of cash inside. "Four dollars? Big spender." He kept searching and found the card. "C'mon, we're taking a little trip."

"What? I can't-"

"Don't worry, no charge for da ride." He threw his cane onto the bed and the IV bag along with it. Then he took hold of the foot of the bed and pulled it away from the wall, his leg already protesting the extra strain he was placing on it.

Taking advantage of the momentum, he grabbed a hold of the head of the bed and pushed from behind, making a grand entrance back into the busy ER through the still-closed curtains. The fabric slid up and over both his patient and himself as he blindly turned right, hoping to run over a nurse or better yet, Dr. Dickwad himself.

"Dr. House!" came a shout from somewhere amongst the ten or so staff members running around, "where are you taking that patient?"

"Nowhere!" he shouted over his shoulder to no one in particular, "jus' tought I'd show him da sights. Be back in no time."

Pushing the bed deemed more difficult than he first anticipated. Between the still bruised muscles in his bad leg and the lingering soreness in his shoulder, the trek to the ATM wasn't going to be easy.

He found leaning his chest against the frame of the bed at least relieved the shoulder pain and he could steer with his left hand. Not much he could do about his right leg at the moment. He'd worry about that later and surely his leg would remind him.

Ignoring the odd looks, they arrived at the lobby ATM, nestled in the corner, away from crowds and, fortunately, Cuddy's office.

"Here we are." The bed was positioned next to the ATM machine so all the guy had to do was turn to his right and reach the keypad.

House had a seat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his already screaming leg. This little field trip was probably not the smartest thing to do but but there were principles involved. It was also fun to watch the other guy squirm like a trapped worm under his finger.

After a few beeps and the swish of money being dispensed made him turn back toward the machine. He reached in and quickly snatched the money out of the tray before Harley man could react.

"Tanks for doin business. Please come again soon," House quipped, pocketing the bills.

Thankfully, the ATM was on the same floor otherwise they would've never made it. The muscles surrounding his injured thigh were starting to turn into a mass of taught fibers, strangling his femur with every painful step.

He limped heavily, trying to keep the weight centered over his left leg, white knuckles clenching the bed frame like a lifeline. His face was set in grim determination, fixed on nothing else but his destination. The guy was not going to get the pleasure of seeing any signs of weakness or vulnerability from him.

As it was, the guy just sat there, arms folded in protest as they traveled through the hallway. At least he was smart enough to keep quiet.

Upon returning, House pushed the bed back to its original location with a last grunt. Breathing heavily through his nose, he tried to gain control of the increasing pain radiating up the right side of his body from his knee to his shoulder and up into his aching head.

With quick, shaky movements, he hooked the IV back up and leaned over the bed rail to address his captive audience.

"Rem'mber, one phone call is all it takes. I now know yer name so be a good boy, go to school and stay outta trouble." He straightened to his full height to appear as threatening as possible. "Or I'll have t'report you t'da principal. Have a nice day."

"How do I know I can trust you won't go back on your word and turn me in anyway?"

"You really don't know that now, do you? But you can trust me, I'm a doctor."

As he pivoted away, he caught sight of Wilson making a beeline towards him from the other side of the crowded room. _Oh crap. _He could only hope Wilson wouldn't recognize the guy behind him with the broken leg and permanent scowl on his face.

A/N: Yes, I know it's a bit contrived but that's what I wanted to have happen, so there. I believe in Karma so I think it's only fair House gets a bit of revenge on the guy in his own weird, twisted way.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Another chapter for you! Thanks again to all of you for your kind reviews. Also, thanks to Magie05 for taking a look at this. All mistakes are mine because I can never leave it alone after getting it back from her.

Chapter 16

Wilson strolled into the ER, on a mission to find House and head home. He had convinced Cuddy to let him take off early, citing House's need for a ride home as an excuse.

Of course, House always had to make things difficult.

He should have assumed something was up when he didn't hear from him in over two hours: no pointless page about some idiotic ER patient or meaningless phone call regarding the latest gossip going around the hospital. Nothing.

Letting out a sigh, he spotted the familiar unkempt salt and pepper hair and canted stature engaged in what looked like a pretty serious conversation with a patient.

From his vantage point, he could see the tendons standing out in House's neck, like taught ropes under his flushed skin. It looked like House had just run the hundred yard dash. He was hunched over, cane firmly wedged against his left hip, the other shoulder still too weak to support him.

Wilson found his thoughts wandering about the cane. Was House getting used to the cane on that side after so many years of defying every physical therapist he had ever encountered?

Couldn't be. The shoulder had to still be bothering him.

With the cane on House's left, everything felt out-of-sync. Even his own stride felt 'off' after so many years of mirroring House's lopsided gait for so long.

Striding up to the two men, he glanced at the patient with whom House had been conversing with in a rather animated fashion. The guy looked vaguely familiar, but then again he looked like the typical biker; the beard, the long greasy hair.

Eyes traveled from the patient back to House who seemed to be wearing a self-satisfied smirk on his face. That's when he noticed the guy in the bed starting to squirm like a captured snake under House's gaze. The tension between the two of them could be cut with a knife.

"Hey, Wilson," House said, his voice suspiciously cheery.

"Uh...hi. Am I interrupting something?" Wilson asked cautiously.

"Nope, was jus' leaving and so are you." Wilson felt a tug on his left sleeve as he was unexpectedly pulled House's direction, tripping over his own feet.

Wilson regained his balance and looked back over his shoulder, noticing the splint on the patient's leg and the ratty denim vest...the denim vest.

No.

No way. It couldn't be.

What were the odds of the same guy who broke House's jaw ending up in the very hospital where he worked? Large numbers decipherable only by mathematicians flashed through his scrambled brain as he tried to utter a few comprehensible words.

Wilson turned away from the patient and whispered in House's ear, "House? Isn't that the guy who hit-"

"Nope. An' stop whisp'ring in my ear. People are gonna start talking."

"Are you sure?"

"Yep. Already heard one of da nurses starting a rumor about how you like to dress up in a french maid's outfit an' make dinner fer me."

"I'm talking about _that_ guy." Wilson not-so-subtly nodded his head back toward the slime ball in the bed. "It's him. I know it and so do you."

"Nope, not him. Tought so too. Udder guy was taller an' had brown eyes. I'm hungry, let's go eat."

"No. You're going to call the police and report the guy. How could you just let him go?" House would never let anything go like that.

Something happened before he had gotten there. He could tell by the look on the patient's face. "Okay, what did you do to him?"

"What? Why do you tink _I _did someting to _him? _Everyting's fine. All taken care of."

Wilson ripped his cell phone out of his pocket and started to dial...he couldn't dial the police because the only number he knew was 911 and this really wasn't an emergency, was it?

But before he could figure out who the hell to call, his phone was snatched from his hand.

"I said _leave it, _Wilson." Wilson felt his hair stand up on the back of his neck. House was serious and it was also his prerogative whether he wanted to turn the guy in or not. It didn't mean Wilson had to agree with him.

"We're even," House added. And just like that, the conversation was over.

He looked back toward the patient and wondered what had caused the man's injuries. Surely House wouldn't have inflicted those cuts and broken bones, could he?

House lurched for the exit, looking a bit stiffer than usual, listing to the left like the leaning tower of Pisa.

Something had happened between the two men before he had gotten there and he was bound and determined to find out what.

They were half way home when Wilson finally broke the silence.

"Okay, what's going on?"

"Well, let's see. Da light turned red. You stopped. When it turns green, dat means go."

"You know what I mean. Back at the ER...the patient. That was the guy who hit you! Why didn't you report him?"

"How do you know? And what good would it do?"

"Well, the guy could be a criminal for all you know."

"You can't be serious. Yeah, I could be savin da world from some evil drunk wit a short fuse. You were dere. I totally baited him."

Wilson turned toward House and locked eyes. "Why are you siding with him?"

""m not siding. Jus' stating da facts," House replied, turning his head to peer out the windshield, wiping some spittle from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve.

Wilson kept staring, still trying to decipher House's odd way of handling things.

"Light's green."

"Oh...thanks." He stepped on the accelerator and focused on the road ahead.

House kept up his little tirade. "All it'd do is give me a headache for da next few months or maybe even a year. Den I'd have ta testify in court. You know how much I love dat. Den you'd get on da witness stand an try to lie about how I was a poor, defenseless cripple mindin' my own business. And the udder witnesses would say how I provoked him an' totally deserved what I got because I'm 'n asshole. We already went trough all dis, Wilson."

Yes, they had had a conversation about it right after House's surgery. Even then, fresh after the attack, House had no interest in filing charges or dealing with any more law enforcement than necessary. With his record, Wilson could somewhat understand. But still, the guy _physically _injured him. House was entitled to _something._

"Besides, I got what I wanted," House stated, holding up a wad of what looked like twenty dollar bills, "we're even."

That sounded more House-like, extorting money from an injured patient. "Wait, you _took_ his money?"

"No, I took _my _money. All in da pronouns. See da difference?" So there it was. Justice in House's mind. He got what he felt was justly deserved.

House rolled the money up and stuck it back in his pocket. That's when Wilson noticed the vice grip House had on his thigh. He thought he had detected some tension in House's words earlier but attributed it to the subject matter being discussed.

Not surprisingly, the familiar rattle of House's Vicodin bottle played over the soft rock from the radio like out-of-sync maracas. Wilson kept his eyes on the road as House threw his head back to swallow the pill.

Wilson wandered back to the original subject. He recalled the bet that had started all of the problems that night. House had placed a wager on their pool game, his opponent agreeing to the price. The guy hadn't kept his end of the deal; simple as that. That's what had pissed off House the most.

The man had put House through hell for the last three weeks, leaving him with a broken jaw and a dislocated shoulder that would probably be troublesome for the rest of his life.

Then there was the leg. It had taken the brunt of his fall and was bothering House more than usual. It was as plain as the exaggerated limp in his step.

There were a few seconds of silence before House added, "I was tinking about sendin him flowers. Whaddya tink?"

"I think you're insane."

It was hard to understand what went on in House's mind sometimes. Sometimes? Who was he kidding? It was more like every second of every day. Any time he tried to think like his friend, he swore his brain was melting and smoke would start billowing out of his ears.

House's belief in Karma or justification or payback or whatever the hell he called it had always outweighed standard practices of law or religion. It was House's way, but it didn't mean it was always right. That guy should have been punished for what he did to House. He wasn't going to let it go that easily so he pushed again.

"Why didn't you turn him in?"

"What are you? A broken record?"

"I'll keep asking until you've satisfied my curiosity."

"I already told you...got what I wanted. We're even." The words came out clipped, tension in every syllable. "And since when did y'become a cat? Y'know what happens t'da cat, right?"

Without warning, House let out a hiss and clenched his leg even tighter if that was possible, the tops of his fingers sinking deeper into the denim. It had been at least twenty minutes since House had taken the Vicodin. The pain should have started to diminish by now.

But House looked anything but relieved. His face was pinched with pain, eyes squeezed shut, lips pursed as his head bowed down, chin against his chest.

Afraid to set off his friend, Wilson kept quiet until they reached House's apartment.

That's when he finally spoke up again. "House, we're here."

House's eyes popped open, the death grip on his leg unrelenting. Both hands were now closed around his thigh like a bear trap, refusing to budge in fear that the captured animal would bite back.

There was an audible sigh from the passenger seat as Wilson tried to busy himself with gathering his belongings and opening the driver's side door.

Wilson climbed out of the vehicle and stood on the sidewalk, waiting for some sign of life to emerge from the car. Carefully, he approached the window and knocked. "House, you coming in?"

There was a pause. Then, without raising his head, House responded. "Gimme a minute. Meet me inside," came the muffled voice through the closed car door.

"You've got two. If you're not at the front door by then, I'm sending a search party after you."

No verbal response but he did detect a slight nod through the window.

It was only about two o'clock and the sun was still relatively high in the sky so he could still make out the hunched figure sitting in the front seat. The reflection of House's building in the car window framed his head like an abstract portrait.

Another hopeful pause before Wilson gave up and headed into the apartment alone, concern written all over his face.

After alternating glances between his watch and his car for the last three minutes, he finally gave up and headed back out to face the wrath of House.

From his vantage point on the front stoop, all he could see were two large gym shoes resting on the sidewalk below the now-opened car door. One foot was flat on the sidewalk, the other, his right, was further out front, only the heel resting on the pavement.

He decided to give House a bit more time to regain his composure before making any attempt to intrude on his privacy.

Another minute passed as he stared, waiting for a sign of movement from the vehicle.

Nothing.

Time to interfere whether House liked it or not. He wasn't about to let the other man sit out in the street for hours because he was too damn stubborn to ask for help.

Wilson put on his "unsympathetic" face and ran a hand through his hair before heading into the ring to do battle with his best friend.

Casually, he strolled to the curb towards the man sitting sideways in the seat, hunched over, rubbing his outstretched leg with fervor. His breaths were labored and sweat had accumulated on his forehead.

Stopping in front of the black gym shoes, Wilson analyzed the situation. "Okay, I'm not going to play twenty questions so just tell me what's going on so I can help."

"Been two...minutes...already?" Suddenly, a low guttural moan escaped from the pile of black coat and jeans hanging out of the car door. "G'ddamnit..."

"I'm not God so I can't really damn anything for you, but I am your friend. Would you _please _let me help you?" He lowered a hand in front of House's face that was still staring at the asphalt as if cursing its very existence.

Pained blue eyes looked up to meet Wilson's. It broke his heart more than he could ever admit when he saw pain and degradation on his face. "C'mon, you're going to start drawing a crowd here. I'm sure you don't want to put on a spectacle for your neighbors."

"How 'bout waiting...til dark..." House suggested, his voice straining from the effort, "no witnesses."

"House, you're not going to stay out here 'til dark," Wilson's tone taking a more forceful approach, hoping it would piss off House enough to get him to his feet, "let's go."

He was met with eyes full of hurt and embarrassment. House quickly averted them to stare at his shoes.

"My shoul...it's...fuck...I can't get up, okay?"

Wilson's heart hit the pavement but he tried to make light of the situation. "Guess that's better than not being able to get _it_ up," smiling warmly while his insides were torn to shreds. He knew how difficult it was for House to admit any kind of weakness and to see him like this was torture for both of them.

This was not some psychosomatic episode left over from House's encounter with that patient. If anything, House should be riding the high of retribution against his assailant, floating on a cloud of satisfaction.

Several passersby had slowed to stare at the two of them engaged in their 'discussion'.

One of the gawkers finally spoke up. "Hey man, need some help there?"

"Fuck off..." came the terse response from the passenger seat. House was still House even when he was ready to pass out from the pain.

Wilson smiled politely and added his own "no, thanks" to the man, trying to offset House's biting reply.

Suddenly, a shaky hand shot up and reached for Wilson. He caught it and immediately could feel the heat radiating through the sweaty palms. "Get me inside..."

"Alright, where's your cane?"

"Won't do much...good. Bum shoulder. Rem'mber?" The words were strained, forced out through clenched muscles.

"It might help with your balance." Wilson took the cane that was wedged between the open door and the seat and shoved it into House's right hand. "C'mon. Let's get you up. Whenever you're ready."

A strong hand clamped around his forearm as House heaved forward, catching Wilson off guard, causing both to stumble slightly to the right. Wilson caught House around the waist with his free hand as he leaned against the open door to regain his footing. "I got you, I got you."

_Oh, if his neighbors could only see us now... _

Wilson situated himself back on House's left, wrapping House's good arm over his shoulder and his own right arm curled around House's waist. He could feel the dampness penetrating through House's T-shirt. The man was soaked in sweat.

"Dis is fucking humil'ating..." House mumbled, panting heavily and hopping on one foot to regain some semblance of balance.

"Get over it. You just better hope none of your neighbors have a camera. This could be incriminating for both of us," Wilson joked, wondering what the two of them looked like from an outsider's perspective.

Wilson's comment earned at least a tight-lipped smile through the pained features in House's face.

They started for the door, Wilson the human crutch on one side, the cane on the other side. Sandwiched between was one miserable looking human being.

They hobbled, tripped and stumbled up the couple of steps and through the doorway to House's apartment. At least Wilson was smart enough to have left the door open, anticipating this possible scenario.

Once inside, Wilson simply asked, "Where?" hoping House would catch on, which he did.

"Couch...closer..." House forced out between shaky gasps.

A few more steps and House was deposited like a sack of potatoes onto the couch, another sharp inhale as his leg bumped lightly against the coffee table. Wilson tried to be gentle but the man was heavier than he looked.

"Sorry," Wilson responded as he pushed the table out of the way with his shin and helped lift House's leg onto the couch, all the while House cautiously ghosted his hand over Wilson's, trying to protect the damaged limb from any further assault.

House followed his own leg and pivoted onto the couch, leaning his head against the armrest. Once Wilson let go, his hand immediately clamped on to the spasming quadriceps. Wilson glanced around for something to place under the offending limb.

"Be right back." He didn't wait for approval as he hustled into House's room and grabbed several pillows from the bed. Quickly and efficiently, he carefully supported House's leg and crammed the pillows under his knee to help the angry muscles relax.

Taking a moment to look up from his position at the end of the couch, he noticed one of House's hands had moved to his stomach. Red, watery eyes stared in horror at the ceiling, anticipating the inevitable.

"I tink I'm..." House tried to roll onto his side, other hand involuntarily covering his mouth in response.

Wilson slipped into panic mode. _Oh crap. The wire cutters! Where are they! Briefcase. _

But before he could react, House's stomach rebelled as his head fell over the edge of the couch, trying to let gravity do its job.

Wilson grabbed the nearest garbage can and placed it under him before much of the vomit could make its way through the fortress of clenched teeth and metal.

A viscous, brown liquid poured out of House's mouth and nose, streaming between the spaces in his teeth like a ruptured dam.

Coughing and sputtering, House kept his face hovering above the can as the remainder of the spew trickled off his chin and parted lips. Tears were making trails to the tip of his nose as he sniffed and snorted, the acid burning his nasal passages.

"Keep coughing. There ya go," Wilson encouraged. He could only sit there and watch as House suffered through another round of retching. God, he felt totally helpless, like a parent dealing with a sick child.

The nausea had to have been from the pain. House needed relief and needed it now.

The coughing and sputtering eased up but the sniffling continued. House looked miserable, bent awkwardly over the edge of the couch, head hanging listlessly over the garbage can.

"You okay now?" A subtle nod was his response through the gasping and grunting.

"Good ting...y'kept...doze wire...cutters handy. Really...helped." House panted out, letting Wilson have it. He deserved it. He should have planned for something like this. But right now his priority was to get House out of pain or a trip back to the hospital might not be out of the question. All he knew was that House couldn't go all night like this.

"Listen, House. Do you have anything else around here? Something stronger besides Vicodin?"

Knowing House as well as he did, he knew his friend had to have some kind of contingency plan for breakthrough pain or for bad days when the Vicodin just wasn't enough. He wasn't about to judge the man or give him a lecture on his drug use. Not right now. Not after seeing him like this. The drugs, unfortunately, were a necessary evil no matter how much he wished otherwise.

"Bookshelf...top," House panted while giving a nod of his head in the general direction of the shelf in question.

It was at least eight feet high. He spotted a step stool in the corner of the room and quickly climbed it. Reaching an outstretched hand over the top, his fingers encountered several books before contacting something cold, metallic. He grabbed the small box and pulled it down, several books tumbling past his head and hitting the floor with a thud.

Setting the box down, he blew away the accumulation of dust that had settled on the grey lid. That was a good sign. It obviously hadn't been used in quite a while.

He dug his fingernails into the edge of the lid, trying to get it to budge. That's when he noticed the combination lock on the front.

"House, what's the combo?"

"Ngh..." House groaned in response.

"The combo, House. To the box."

"9-1-1..." replied the strained voice from behind.

Emergency. He should have guessed.

Quickly, he dialed in the numbers and opened the lid, revealing a tourniquet, several bottles of morphine and pre-packaged sterile syringes. It made him queasy to think House had to resort to something as potent as this but felt a bit of relief when it looked like only one bottle had showed only minimal signs of use.

He stopped trying to judge his friend then quickly and efficiently filled a syringe with the proper dose and hurried back to House's side.

"Gimme your arm."

House obeyed, letting the back of his hand flop against the coffee table, exposing the crook of his elbow. Wilson quickly swabbed the area and injected the morphine into the vein.

He stood by, watching House visibly relax, sinking deeper into the cushions with every second.

"Better?" Wilson asked after a few minutes.

"Yeah..."

"Let's get you turned around so you don't end up with your back in a knot too."

House barely even reacted as Wilson rolled him over and carefully repositioned his leg on a stack of pillows he had stolen from the bedroom. The tension in the damaged limb permeated through the denim and into his palms. Even the hamstrings and calf muscles on the back of House's leg felt like rock under his touch.

A limp forearm flopped over House's closed eyes as he continued to sniff and cough a bit. Spots of brown and yellow now decorated his chin and the shoulder of his T-shirt. Wilson felt it best to not try and clean up the splatter unless he wanted to lose an arm in the process.

House's face contorted into something resembling a toddler trying green beans for the first time, nose crinkling in disgust. The poor guy's mouth probably tasted like the inside of a garbage can.

"Want some water?" Another simple nod.

He brought back a glass with a straw and eased House into a sitting position. The man felt like a rag doll in his arms, the effects of the morphine doing its job.

"Here." House took the offered glass and sucked the liquid down, his eyes still closed. The glass was thrust back into his chest as House collapsed back against the armrest, little water droplets trickling down his chin. It was an effort for Wilson not to reach up and wipe away the drool.

Suddenly, a groggy voice spoke up. "Aren't y'gonna lect're me about d'drugs?"

"No. Not today."

House seemed satisfied with his simple answer and remained silent.

As Wilson sat there watching House melt into the couch, he recalled seeing a heating pad on the night stand and retrieved it with lightning speed. He placed it over the injured area, the leg twitching in response to the contact.

Finally satisfied that House was relatively comfortable, he took a seat in the lounge chair until the pungent odor of House's stomach contents urged him off the couch to dispose of the trash can's remains. On his way back he grabbed a washcloth and wet it down with warm water.

The can was cleaned out and set next to the couch again just in case and the rag was offered to House who limply wiped his face before Wilson cleaned the couple of spots from his shirt. Luckily, by then, House wasn't putting up a fight.

Finally satisfied everything was somewhat under control, Wilson returned to his spot on the lounge chair to watch over House like a sentinel in the night.

The apartment all of a sudden became eerily quiet, the only sound was the rhythmic hiss of air being exchanged through House's nose and slightly parted lips. The effects of the morphine had kicked in and he seemed to be resting peacefully.

"House?" Wilson asked tentatively, looking for any sign of consciousness from the couch.

A barely audible "hmmm?" rumbled from deep inside House's chest.

He didn't know exactly what went on back at the hospital but he wondered if House had really gotten what he wanted. He had heard bits and pieces from a nurse about House's little trip through the halls with the patient. He had to ask.

"Was it worth it?"

Another questioning grunt was the only reply.

"Your little adventure today with your friend. Was it worth all of this?"

There was a pause before House responded, words tripping over themselves as they spilled out of his mouth. "Yeah...t's wortit."

A/N: I think there's one more chapter to go.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Well, this is the end. I've FINALLY finished it! Thanks so much to all the readers and reviewers who have stuck with me throughout this story. I personally want to thank: iluve wansmile, theviewfromhere, kiki Cabou, glassdragon2, medicgirl, micetea, GeeLady, and donttouch. If I've forgotten any other regular reviewers, I apologize. **

**And another thank you to all who have put this story on alert and/or in their favorites. It makes me very happy to know that others have enjoyed this story. **

**And lastly, I apologize (again) for how long it took me to finish this thing. Funny how muses, real life and writer's block can put a cramp in the writing process. **

**Wow, that was a long author's note. Anyway, hope you enjoy the last chapter of Wired. Now I can get back to Monster Truck Mayhem and finish that beast. Anyone remember what was happening in that story? Just kidding. Have already gone through it and started on the next chapter.**

Chapter 17

"You ready?" Stec asked as he hovered above House, filling his line of sight.

"Been ready." House replied from his prone position on the exam table.

The wires were finally coming off. After the puking incident the other day he was ready to take a blow torch to the wires but Wilson had convinced him to hang in there just a little longer, citing the possibility of having to extend the time the wires were on if he had jeopardized Stec's work.

House had literally sucked it up and dealt with the mouthful of metal for the rest of the week, counting down the days, hours, minutes...seconds until this appointment. If Stec made up some excuse and decided not to remove the wires, he'd find out first hand what he himself had been going through for the last month.

Stec nodded towards his assistant who was seated at House's left shoulder. He caught some slight movement, assuming she was administering the sedative.

Immediately, warmth started flowing through his veins, plunging him deep into a warm cocoon. His eyelids became heavy and had a difficult time staying focused. It felt like that moment right before one fell asleep when thoughts start to wander.

Within seconds, the conversation around him dimmed to a distant murmur and he became oblivious to the surgeon wielding the wire cutters and hand tools.

Voices swam in and out of range like someone was playing with the volume control in his brain. He'd try to focus on the source but found it much easier to slide back into the depths of his comfortable slumber.

Someone was calling his name. A soft voice that fought its way through the murkiness of his drug addled brain.

Everything was in slow motion. "Dr. Hooouuuse. Tiiime to wake uuup. You're all finiiished."

Finished? Finished with what?

As the anesthetic cleared out of his system, his thoughts reorganized themselves into some coherent order, the haze lifting from his brain.

Oh, yeah. Stec's office.

Before he could even open his eyes, his tongue responded first by pushing its way through the narrow opening between his now wire-free teeth. It slid between rough, dry lips and gently moistened them with a gentle flick back and forth. It was heaven on Earth.

The glare from the overhead lights shone through his eyelids, creating a display of shimmering pinks and whites. He decided to keep his eyes closed as his tongue slowly explored the rest of his mouth.

The insides of his cheeks felt rough and sore from the constant poking and scraping of the foreign metal constantly rubbing against them. His tongue ventured back over his poor neglected lips out of habit. They felt like the middle of a desert; dry and rough, complete with cacti and prickly bushes.

A constant buzz ignited in his gums, an overall burning as if he had just flossed with barbed wire. That was when he noticed the slight metallic taste of blood still lingering in his mouth. Not surprising. The metal anchors had been buried deep under his gum tissue to support the bands and wires holding his jaws together.

A dull ache was starting to build under both of his ears; his jaw muscles were not happy about having to work again even if they had only moved a half an inch.

"Your jaw is going to be very sore and stiff for a while."

_No kidding, _he thought as he let his mouth fall closed again. It felt like a spring loaded trap door.

"You need to ease back into eating solid food. Start with something soft. Mac and cheese, pasta, apple sauce, pudding. You'll get a list of foods that would work well during your first week without the wires."

House finally opened his eyes and glared back at the doctor. He knew he'd have to take it easy but he was dying for something he could sink his teeth into; a steak, maybe a burrito. Even Wilson's stuffed peppers sounded enticing.

Well, at least his tongue was free again. And oh god, did he want to brush it! He was afraid to look in the mirror, fearing he'd have a Chia Pet for a tongue.

Just to test Stec's theory, he strained to open his mouth wider when several cracks and pops echoed in his head followed by a sharp pain that shot through both sides of his jaw and into his ears.

Okay, that probably wasn't the smartest thing to do.

An involuntary wince escaped before he could hide it and he let the muscles relax as he reflexively massaged the aching joint. Everything was tight and sore. The tendons felt like piano wire tuned to high 'G' and the atrophied muscles like the dried up leather of an old baseball glove; stiff, inflexible.

"I just told you to take it slow," Stec scolded, "You really _are _as stubborn as I've heard."

He mumbled his first words wire-free. "Gotta keep up...my reputation..." His jaw barely moved as he had become so accustomed to speaking with his mouth closed. The effects of the sedative were still wearing off, not helping matters in the least.

"Stay here and relax a while longer until you can stand up without falling over. Jenny is going to give you some exercises to do for your jaw and some other goodies to take home."

House didn't argue as he stretched his sleepy limbs and tried to collect the rest of his bearings. The mild sedative wasn't nearly as potent as general anesthesia, but it sure did leave one feeling a bit out of sorts to say the least.

He was slowly brought back up into a sitting position as the small procedure room danced and spun around him. It felt as if he'd been hanging upside down by his feet for hours and was suddenly turned back upright. Wow, better than some of the drugs he'd taken in college.

The assistant presented him with a small cup filled with greenish-blue liquid. He took the offer and caught a whiff of mint along with an antiseptic smell as it passed under his nose. The liquid burned as he swished vigorously, enjoying the sensation as millions of microbes were killed on contact.

Some of the mouthwash tried escaping through his lips before the little white straw-like tube was shoved unceremoniously into his mouth along with a demand to "close". The miniature vacuum sucked out the remaining rinse along with his tongue, cheeks and anything else that happened to stray into the suction tube's path.

He released the tube with a grimace and rubbed the side of his face again. The jaw was already aching and he'd only opened about an inch.

The door clicked open behind him and he turned to see Wilson entering cautiously behind one of Stec's assistants. House bared his teeth, proudly showing off his metal free mouth then promptly stuck his tongue out. "You don't know how good it feels to be able to do that again."

Wilson smiled in return. "Oh, I don't doubt that."

"Let's blow this joint."

"Awwww, your cute little speech impediment is gone. I was growing fond of that."

"I can give you one if you liked it so much." House threatened, balling his hand into a fist.

Wilson raised his hands in defense. "Just kidding, just kidding. How does it feel?"

"Like I haven't opened my mouth in a month."

Wilson did his usual hands-on-hips thing, waiting for a real answer.

"Stiff, sore. Like you after pushing yourself too hard at one of your monthly workouts."

The assistant- Cindy, Candy, Connie, whatever her name was, interrupted their conversation when she started rattling off directions and shoving papers into his hand.

"And I want you to follow these instructions on the sheet; otherwise you'll never be able to open your mouth as wide as you could before the surgery."

"My boyfriend would be so disappointed." House stated bluntly, looking over at Wilson with batting eyelashes. This earned a confused look from the assistant and a new shade of red from Wilson's face.

The assistant remained professional, surely aware of House's reputation for trying to shock people. "You're free to go. Work on those gums and they should heal up pretty fast. Give us a call if you have any problems."

Wilson handed House his cane and he levered himself out of the chair, the world still teetering a bit. But his ever-faithful sidekick was by his side to make sure he didn't re-break his face on the floor before escaping.

"Maybe I'll practice on hot dogs first," House said as he stuck his pinky finger between the narrow opening of his teeth.

Wilson cringed and raised a hand. "Just stop. Please. You're going to scar the poor girl for life, not to mention me."

House turned back over his shoulder as he left the office. "He gets a little sensitive when I talk about our personal stuff."

They headed out of the office, a satisfied smirk firmly planted on House's lips while Wilson covered his own blushing face with his hand.

* * *

"You HAVE to hire new fellows. There's no option here, House." Cuddy snapped, arguing _again _with her most infuriating employee. "You dug the hole, now you have to crawl your way out."

"Hey, I use the metaphors. Besides, maybe I like working alone."

She had to admit it was nice to see him somewhat back to his old self, at least sounding normal again. Even though his words were clear, she could tell he still wasn't fully opening his mouth. The muscles had to be sore and stiff but some of that may have been from habit after having to speak with his mouth closed for a month. He'd have to get used to that freedom of speech again, literally. But she wasn't going to let him off the hook. He needed a team whether he liked it or not.

Cuddy reached into one of her drawers and pulled out a stack of folders. "I took the liberty to get the word out that you were looking for some new employees. Surprise, surprise! There are people out there who would actually like to work for you...at least until they meet you face to face."

"Thanks for the reassurance. I suppose you expect me to actually interview all of these idiots?"

"Yes, or you could just play eenie meenie miney mo."

"That might work. Or maybe I can hang the resumés on my office wall and throw darts. Kinda like pin the tail on the lackey." He scanned through the folder on the top of the pile. "Did you get pics of each one? Looks are important in this line of work, you know. Can't have Ugly Betty doing Selma Hayek's job now, could we?"

He was such a pig. "Just take the charts and make the calls or I'll hire them myself."

"Go ahead. I'm sure you could find some use for them. Maybe a wardrobe consultant."

"I meant for _you." _She leaned across the desk towards House who was sitting across from her. "Hire three of them or I'll hire them for you."

"Fine." He snatched the stack of folders and limped out of the office.

She made a mental note to mention this to Wilson. He always knew the tricks on how to get House to behave.

* * *

"What are you doing with that guitar?" Wilson looked at the gleaming white instrument resting in House's lap. He had heard the piercing sound echoing down the hallway and knew where it had to be coming from.

"Playing it, what does it look like?" He was parked in his lounge chair in the corner of his office, an amplifier next to his desk.

"Aren't you supposed to be hiring new employees?"

"Oh, come on. It's only been a few days. Cuddy won't be on my case for at least another week. Besides, doctor said for me to ease back into work."

"That was two weeks ago when you were supposed to be working in the ER part-time."

"I _was _working in the ER part-time. Emphasis on the 'part'."

House always had a way to twist things around to fit his own agenda. Yes, he had agreed to help out in the ER on difficult cases and he stuck to that. Unfortunately, nothing really interesting...at least for House...came in during those few weeks, except his old friend from the bar which hadn't been mentioned since that day.

Wilson suddenly realized why he had stopped by. "Hey! I want to take you out for a celebratory dinner tonight. Your jaw is healed up enough now and I want to treat you to your first real meal."

"Is this an apology for making me suffer while watching you indulge in your own culinary fantasies?

"Yeah, something like that." Wilson shrugged, feeling a bit guilty for putting House through that torture back then. "Oh, and my treat." Not that it would be any other way.

House sat the guitar down and stood up, his cane in his left hand. But then he surprised Wilson and switched it to his right. Things were getting back to normal.

"Fine." House was never one to turn down free food."Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise. I have special plans."

"Oh, a date. How romantic. You gonna spring the question on me tonight? I should have brought my pimp cane. This one is so informal." House held up his plain brown cane for demonstration.

Wilson just shook his head as House grabbed his backpack and they headed to Wilson's car.

* * *

"This is absurd. I am _not _wearing a blindfold!"

They were in the car and Wilson was trying to convince a very adamant House to cover his eyes because he wanted the destination to be a surprise.

"Fine, then we'll just go home." Wilson started to turn the car another direction, even though he still had full intention of reaching their destination whether House participated in his little game or not. But House didn't need to know that.

"You're evil." House held one of Wilson's spare ties in his hand like it was some kind of dangerous snake. "You could've picked one that wasn't quite so ugly."

"Just do it. For me."

To Wilson's surprise, House glared at him from the passenger seat before reluctantly placing the tie over his eyes and tying it around the back of his head.

"I can't believe I'm doing this..." he muttered, staring ahead at nothing.

Wilson repressed a slight giggle when he glanced over to see the red and blue stripes adorning House's face and forehead.

"That's the sprit!" Wilson bellowed with a pump of his fist. House was so going to get him back for this some day but it was worth it.

"It better not be far or you'll end up with this tie somewhere less respectable than my face."

Before House quit this little game, Wilson decided to capture the moment forever in the form of low-grade pixelation on his iPhone.

"Did I just hear a camera?"

"No, you just heard the sound of blackmail echoing through the air."

House reached up to snag the silky material off his eyes when Wilson grabbed his arm. "Ah, ah, ah. Take it off and the deal is off."

"Why should I bother listening to you? You already buy the majority of my meals anyway."

"Ah, but this one's special. It's a celebration of your ability to chew again. It's the little things in life. And I wanted to treat you to something out of the ordinary. Someplace we wouldn't go on a regular basis." He knew he was reeling House in, dangling the bait in front of his nose.

House crossed his arms in front of him, his nostrils flaring from under diagonal stripes.

Wilson could only smile as he continued to their destination. It was fun having control over someone who rebelled against anything and anyone resembling power. House was wrapped around his little finger...at least for a few more minutes.

His passenger was becoming impatient, glancing blindly back and forth, able to see nothing but a sliver of light filtering through the small opening by his nose.

The anticipation was starting to drive House nuts and his salivary glands responded to the imaginary filet mignon, twice baked potato and French silk pie floating in his head. Or maybe some barbeque ribs? He'd probably have to cut the meat off the bone with a knife, but he didn't care. As long as it wasn't liquid or puréed, he'd be happy.

It had been a week since the wires had come off and his jaw was feeling stronger each day. He had graduated from mac and cheese to soft sandwiches and other pastas. Now it was time to really test himself.

The car slowed and turned to the right. Then it felt as if Wilson was competing in some kind of obstacle course, turning right, left and back right again. Finally, the car stopped and he reached for the makeshift blindfold.

"Wait!" A hand grabbed his arm.

"Oh, come on. I stuck to the deal. We're here. Now can I _please _stop feeling like some prisoner from Guantanamo Bay?"

"Please. Just another minute. Don't move. Just stay right there."

The car door opened and closed quickly then suddenly his right elbow slipped off the arm rest as his door was opened unexpectedly. He caught himself on the door frame before two hands grabbed his upper arms and encouraged him to get out.

"I need my damn cane first." He stuck his hand out, waiting for Wilson to oblige him.

Something wooden and narrow was thrust into his right hand. He yanked his left arm out of Wilson's grasp and blindly grabbed for the door. A hand clamped around his wrist again as he fumbled for a hold.

Another yank. He was starting to feel like he was in a tug-of-war competition. "I can do this myself, thank you." He pushed himself into a standing position, leaning on his cane, tie-wrapped head pivoting around in confusion.

"Just a few more seconds. Here, take my arm."

House reached out blindly and snagged the thin material of Wilson's shirt sleeve. "Don't you think this is overdoing it a bit?" He felt like a crippled cripple if that were even possible. A sense of uneasiness washed over him even though he trusted Wilson implicitly not to lead him into busy traffic or something worse.

Thankfully, Wilson walked slowly enough and let House set the pace with short, tentative steps. "So help me, if you're leading me to a mud pit, I'm gonna roll around the inside of your spotless interior. Unless, of course, there are naked female wrestlers involved, then I'll roll around with them instead." He felt himself talking just to keep from going insane with anticipation.

"No mud pit. Trust me."

Suddenly he ran into the back of Wilson who had stopped for some reason.

"Okay, you can take off the blindfold."

House reached up and hooked a thumb under the tie and yanked it off his head, making his hair stick out in new directions. Blinking a few times at the ground, he waiting until his eyes adjusted before they traveled up the side of the building. They landed on the enormous red and orange sign with the giant annoying grey mouse donning a baseball cap and giving him the thumbs up.

"You've got to be kidding me." His brow furrowed as he tried to make some sense of Wilson's bizarre thought processes. "Chuck E. Cheese's?

"Why not? They've got pizza which you like, video games which you love, and you can pick on someone your own age." Wilson's smile grew as he rested a hand on House's shoulder just as a group of kids came out the door, laughing and smiling. "So, what do you say? I brought extra money for tokens."

House held open the door and gestured with a wave of his hand. "After you."

"You always did know who was in charge in this relationship."

They enjoyed their pizza and Cokes. House chewed slowly and carefully, savoring the texture and substance of his meal. It was a pleasant sight to behold.

But before Wilson could lose himself in the Hallmark moment, House decided to venture off towards the game room packed with noisy kids and loud, flashing games.

Wilson watched as House limped off, cane in one hand, a handful of tokens in the other. Just like any other eight year old kid...except maybe for the cane...and the fact that he was about two feet taller than anyone else.

He took another bite of pizza and stopped mid-chew when he heard that familiar gruff voice booming above the high pitched din of the children's voices.

"I was here first!" House barked.

"But you already played this game once! You're supposed to share!" the kid's high-pitched voice complained.

"Go find something else. I'm gonna be a while."

Suddenly, the kid's voice aimed in his general direction. "Mommy, that man won't let me play!" The mother gave House a menacing glare but told her son to share, emphasizing the word loud enough hopefully for House to hear. Of course, House was engrossed in battling aliens in outer space and was oblivious to the reprimand.

Wilson just shook his head and smiled down at his now empty plate with Chuck E. Cheese smiling back at him.

Some things would never change.

A/N: So that's it. Hopefully the ending satisfied you. Thanks again to everyone and hope to see you at Monster Truck Mayhem!


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